


so far out of reach (i wish you'd open up for me)

by flyersgiroux



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Relationship, M/M, Navigating Feelings, Sexual Content, alternating pov, lots of thoughts, too many for dumbass hockeys, too many thoughts maybe, wish babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyersgiroux/pseuds/flyersgiroux
Summary: Now, wish babies certainly weren’t uncommon.  Most of them were the product of couples that couldn’t have children of their own.  Queer couples, infertility, you name it.  They were also just that, babies.  The young child appeared out of what seemed like nowhere and into the loving home of a family that was desperate for a young one of their own to raise.As Claude sat on the couch back at his apartment, face in his hands, his brain still trying to wrap itself around the situation, all he knew was that whatever information people had about wish babies was all wrong.Firstly, Carter didn’t appear as a baby.  He appeared as a fully fleshed out 20-year-old.Secondly, if he was making any wishes with Sid that night, it certainly wasn’t for a baby.





	so far out of reach (i wish you'd open up for me)

**Author's Note:**

> This all started as a silly in-joke in my discord group. Someone suggested that perhaps Carter Hart looks similar to Sidney Crosby (not everyone could agree on that, so if you don't agree with it, don't come at me)...then somehow a joke about parentage came up...then someone decided to cater to my shipping tastes by insisting Claude Giroux would be the other parent...and then wish babies?
> 
> And then I wrote a fic, and it became the weirdest love letter I could think of to this ship.
> 
> As a note, I do take some artistic liberties with pre-season press stuff, but as it goes on, the details become pretty accurate to the season. It also became a bit of a dumping ground for my various feelings as the season went on, so if something feels out of character for them (I say even though this fic is nothing but things that would never be said or done by the real people involved), it's probably because I was heavily projecting a lot.
> 
> Also, I'm posting this un-beta'd because I'm just too impatient and need to finally get this fic out into the world, so if you notice anything that needs fixed, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Title comes from the song Amaryllis by Shinedown.

There’s this… _thing_ between them.  Which, if Sid’s being perfectly honest, “thing” is such a poor word to even begin to describe the complex relationship he has with Claude Giroux.  But it’s also the only word he can think of that’s vague enough to serve as an umbrella to all the little pieces of what they are, to even capture their weird history.

Firstly, they’re bitter rivals.  Playing in the same division, in the same state, representing two different sides of east and west…the divide between the two halves of Pennsylvania was real, raw, and often bitter, and the faces of the rivalry between Pittsburgh and Philly couldn’t be – at least on the surface – more different.

Sidney Crosby, the boy wonder, the Next One, the golden Canadian (and how many other monikers and clichés Sid was honestly sick of hearing about by now).  Pittsburgh seemed to embrace everything about him: his work ethic, his perfectionism, his dedication.  If he had his choice of team, he wasn’t sure what he would’ve chosen, but Pittsburgh seemed to fit him pretty well considering he had no say in the destination.

Then there was Claude Giroux, the man who decided the best way to heal from broken wrists was to play beer pong and once was so drunk he played grab-ass with a cop.  Sid knew the ginger, deadpan French Canadian was the perfect representative for everything Philadelphia was: a hot mess.  (Sid has to remind himself that it’s certainly not bitter stereotyping when the city embraces its chaos.  What other city and what other team would ever think to come up with that hideous, orange monstrosity that calls itself a mascot?  Case in point.)

Their differences meant they should’ve flat out hated each other.  And for a while, that was true.  It wasn’t hard for the two of them to get lost in the bad blood that ran deep across the state.  Sid remembered how they tackled each other down to the ice, mouthing off to the press about how much he hated Giroux and his team, and how he supposedly managed to break Giroux’s wrists.  Sid honestly still isn’t sure how much of that – if he ever was the person responsible – was a conscious effort and how much of it was just adrenaline, hatred, and competition taking over his body and acting without his input.  It’s a subject the two of them have tried their best to bury nowadays, even if it sometimes still rears its head.  Hard not to remember it when you’re pinning him down in bed and notice those scars as you wrap your hands around his wrists.  Just as an example.

Which led to how the two of them, against all odds, went from hating each other to hooking up as fuckbuddies.  (That was Claude’s label of choice for them, thank you very much.)  It all started when they first found themselves playing for Canada, during Worlds.  (There’s yet another word for them that appears in moments like these: teammates.)  Here they were, both of them awarded for their contributions to the sport of hockey by being offered a spot on a national team together.  Sid knew he would have to be respectful to everyone as Captain Canada, but he had expected his interactions with Claude would amount to nothing more than professional courtesy toward each other.  He certainly wasn’t expecting playful punches and genuine smiles and hockey hugs with as much feeling as possible squeezed into them and being won over into embarrassing laughing fits that he was all too aware sounded more like goose honks.  He wasn’t expecting that a Penguin and a Flyer could actually mesh their playstyles so well together as to be a powerful combination on the ice.  Assisting Claude on that absolutely gorgeous tournament capping goal was certainly a highlight of his career.  He’d seen plays like it before, but Sid found it to be absolutely stunning to watch as #28 dipped down on one knee just long enough to snipe the puck to the back of the net.  He felt far more proud than he should have to be responsible for setting up that goal for Giroux.

And that was when Sid realized he was far, far too gone on Claude Giroux.

The combo of the thrill of winning the tournament, being a little tipsy from champagne, and Giroux giving no fucks and deciding to hang around the dressing room fully naked (what an asshole) was most likely why Sidney Crosby, the Canadian golden boy, managed to let his guard down enough to also stop giving any fucks.  When Claude came to his room later to ravish him to pieces, he couldn’t say no.  Sid fell apart from Claude’s touch, from the sensation of his mouth, from being slowly opened up and filled to the brim by a man that, only a few weeks prior, was one of his sworn enemies.  Sid couldn’t care at all in that moment that this was forbidden territory, that his life had become some poorly conceived mash-up of _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Pride and Prejudice_ : a star-crossed relationship with someone you swore you hated.  For this one night, all he wanted was the feeling of ecstasy and bliss that only Giroux was capable of bringing him.  It wasn’t because no other person was skilled enough, oh no.  It was because he didn’t want to desire anyone else.  All he wanted – all he _still_ wants – was Claude, Claude, Claude…

The natural magnetism that pulled them together also created an unspoken understanding between them.  They were aware that this was the end of their time in Prague.  They would go off on their separate ways for the rest of the off-season, and they would eventually find themselves once more on opposing teams as the captains and faces of one of the biggest rivalries in all of hockey.  As much as Sid _wanted_ he knew he could never actually have this.  He wanted to lock up Prague away as an anomaly, and he was sure so would Giroux.

When on the ice for the first time that season, it seemed as if the two of them had done a pretty good job of that.  The vitriol and anger and competition felt as strong as ever before, no matter how much the media post-Worlds had seemed to paint an idea that perhaps the rivalry had gone up in smoke.  Everyone invested in Crosby vs Giroux had nothing to fear.  That summer seemed to mean nothing.

And then Giroux had to text him after the game.

_Claude Giroux: Playing hockey against you should not turn me on, but here I am_

(Sid had immediately after reading that text changed the contact name in his phone to something more conspicuous, just a simple C.  No one would think it’s Giroux if it’s not his nickname…and no one would try mistaking it for Geno, either.)

A new routine in Sid’s life had begun.  A rivalry game couldn’t take place without fucking each other before or after the game (depending upon schedules).  What happened in Prague was not going to just lie down and die.  They had opened up Pandora’s box, and there was no going back.  They craved each other’s bodies too much.

It got worse during their time in Toronto.  Even though Claude didn’t get play much at that tournament, the walls still fell, their natural chemistry bubbled back to the surface, and they still took every spare moment they could find to touch, to squeeze, to kiss, to moan out “fuck me,” to make each other cum…it was as if they had never found themselves on the opposite sides of a rivalry.

They fell into this back and forth pattern.  Rivals to fuckbuddies, swinging on the scale depending upon time and circumstance.  Yet, there is another word that could describe them…or, perhaps more accurately, it’s a word Sid desperately wants to describe them as.  One that, if he could actually use it, it would be able to replace the way he thinks of them now.  It would obliterate the useless term “thing” once and for all.

Lovers.

Because Sid loves.  Deeply.  He can’t remember exactly when his attraction to Claude became so serious.  Was it during the aftermath of one of their hook ups, when Claude had just fallen asleep next to him and the faint lights of the city peek into the room from past the curtains, illuminating the outline of the body he’d come to know almost as well as his own?  Was it during the aftermath of a rivalry game that took a turn the Flyers’ way and Sid couldn’t help but admire the beaming grin and twinkling eyes that a well-earned victory produced on Claude’s face?  (An admiration that managed to momentarily erase that Sid also wanted in those moments to just snap his sticks in half for all the times he lost faceoffs or managed to pass the puck straight into an intercepting player or angled his shot _just_ off enough that it missed the net instead of being a surely unblockable goal, etc., until he had fully and completely blamed himself for the loss.)

He honestly doesn’t know when it happened.  All Sid knows is that on some passing day, he was struck with the realization that if it were possible, if it wouldn’t completely upheave both of their lives along with fracturing the NHL if it ever became public (the You Can Play project be damned, this league certainly wasn’t ready yet for either one of them to come out with their sexualities, let alone to come out as a couple, and a couple on _rival teams_ ), well…Sid would pour out his feelings and tell Claude how much he actually means to him.

It’s a life, however, that Sid is sure he cannot have.  Not only would it cause too much damage, but it couldn’t be possible that Claude feels the same way.  If he did, surely something would’ve happened by now.

It’s just unfortunate because Sid _wants_.

No, Sid _needs_.

But if he’s been able to block out his lust for Claude enough during games, he can start to block out his love for him during their hookups, right?

Well, that’s what he’s at least trying to do in this moment, as this _thing_ between them seems to be swinging back to fuckbuddies territory.  The frantic knocking on his hotel room door was unexpected, but to find Claude when he swung it open was certainly a welcome sight.  Especially when he hadn’t yet changed out of his suit from the rounds of interviews during their pre-season media day.  He looked beautifully disheveled after a long day of putting up with people and cameras.

“Are you the room service I ordered?” Sid said, the flirty language rolling smoothly off his tongue in a way that makes him feel proud of himself.

The sigh Claude gives him, though, serves as a reminder that the only reason he can deliver the line so smoothly in the first place is because he’s used it so many times already, in how many hotels around the world.  Okay, so he’s not the best flirt, but look what he managed for himself anyway.  He won over _that_ man in front of him without being anything other than himself.  Bad flirting included.

Claude takes a step forward, and Sid knows to move out of the way so his…friend?...partner?...so _Claude_ can come inside.  Claude makes his way over to the mini fridge, grabs one of the complementary tiny bottles of liquor inside – ignoring Sid’s complaint of “Hey!” – and downs the contents in one gulp. 

“Sometimes I really fucking hate interviews,” Claude says, looking at him with a face that looked ready to kill someone.

“You and me both.  But come on, are you really gonna make _me_ pay for shit you’re drinking?  Couldn’t you have raided the stash in your own room?”

“Probably.”  Claude gave him that patented shit-eating grin of his.

“I hate you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.  But right now, I hate interviews more.”

Sid couldn’t bring himself to try to stop Claude from downing another one of the liquor bottles.  There was something in his voice – and, he now realized, his appearance – that meant someone, or maybe even multiple someones, had asked a question that went too far.

“Who do I need to blame your moodiness on?”

“I can’t even remember which reporter it was.  They all blur together when you’re spending all day in front of cameras.  But fuck, just because I’m the god damn captain doesn’t mean I’m responsible for all my team’s shortcomings!”

“That’s certainly not something you need to explain to _me_.”  The burden of captaincy.  Sid knew it all too well.

Claude let out a breathy chuckle as he decided to sit down and sprawl out over Sid’s bed, making himself comfortable.  He started undoing the tie around his neck as he said, “I get it when I have to field these kinds of questions during the season.  When we’re in the middle of a slump or when one of my teammates is having a scoring drought…but, fuck!  It’s a new year, a new start!  Why’d they have to go and remind me that my first season with over 100 points wasn’t enough to get us out of round 1, no offense to yours truly…and the questions about last season kept coming.  Is it the coaching staff?  Is it our general manager?  Did we trade the wrong people?  Is it all down to fucking goaltending?”

Claude was practically shouting by the time he finally stopped, closed his eyes, and took in a few deep breaths.  Sid stood at the end of the bed awkwardly, not sure what to say or what to do.  This was honestly new.  Claude didn’t usually choose to vent to him about things like this.

Sid’s instincts were telling him to slide onto the bed next to the strung-out Flyer, wrap his arms around him, and hold him tight…as if maybe he could transfer some of his ability to win the Stanley Cup over via his touch.  Yes, it was the Penguins’ desire to go for the threepeat that once again knocked the Flyers out of the playoffs in the first round.  But Sid can also still remember drunkenly calling up Claude after being eliminated themselves by the Capitals and babbling on about how if it wasn’t gonna be the Pens lifting the Cup, it should have been the Flyers, that he wanted to take the whole playoff series back…that he actually felt bad for taking away another chance for Claude Giroux to finally win the Cup.

It was probably the closest Sid ever got to actually confessing his feelings.  Thankfully the alcohol only made him partially stupid.  Those feelings needed to be kept hidden for his own sanity.

So, he wasn’t gonna listen to that instinct.  But he also didn’t wanna stand anymore, wanted to be at eye-level for the rest of this conversation, so he sat at the edge of the bed instead.  Keeping his distance was the safest bet.

“That last question was the final straw,” Claude continued.  “They really tried to ask me if after losing in round 1 _again_ if the best course of action is to scrap all our goalies.  I…no!  Why the hell would we do that?  And why ask _me_ that?  I’m not in charge of the damn roster!  How the fuck do some of these people get media passes, I swear…But come on, it’s not just on them whether we win or lose.”

“Well…” Sid tried to choose his words carefully.  “That question was certainly starting to cross a line, but the reasoning makes sense.  You want good goalies.  I like who we have now, but I know it wasn’t the same for us this year without Flower.  Sometimes I wonder if we could’ve beat the Caps if we had him instead, if missing him threw something off.  But you’re also right.  Losing or being eliminated from the playoffs isn’t because one player failed the rest of the team.  It just means the other team played better than you.”

Claude gave him a bitter look.  “Croz, media day’s over, you don’t have to play neutral observer.  You won’t offend any reporters in here.”

Sid was confused.  “I wasn’t doing that.”

“No, you were.  You really fall into that habit more than you realize.”

“Claude…you know that I root for you.  Not so much the other Flyers, but when our relationship is…whatever the hell this is…”

Sid stopped as Claude beamed up at him, a genuine toothy grin spreading across his face – with all teeth in, Sid noted – for the first time since he came to visit.  “Say that again?”

“Say what again?”

“That you root for me.”

So that’s where this was going.  “You know this already, you don’t need to make me regret trying to comfort you.”

“You know…I think you’d look quite stunning in orange…and with the name Giroux on your back.”  Claude was looking him up and down as if he was able to picture it.

“No, that’d be repulsive.”  Well, the color part would be.  The name part didn’t sound so bad.

“Oh?  Is that so?”  Claude suddenly jumped up off the bed and started looking around the hotel room until he seemed to find what he was looking for.

“Claude, why are you rummaging through my duffle bag?”

“Because I’m gonna make you eat your words.”

“You think I’ve got your jersey in there?”  Claude could be an idiot, so Sid really couldn’t put it past him for that.

“No…but I’m sure you’ve got yours from photoshoots today…”

Why was Claude always so confusing?  “Mine?”

“Found it.”  Before Sid could fully process what’s happening, he found himself staring at the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.  Claude Giroux was wearing _his_ logo, _his_ colors…and damn did black and gold go stunningly with ginger.

“You like what you see?” Claude asked, a seductive grin on his face.

Sid could only nod, his mouth refusing to operate.

Claude laughed in approval.  “You think it looks good from the front, but from the back…” He turned around and…

Oh.  Oh fuck.  That’s _his_ number, _his_ name.  His _name._   On Claude.  He briefly wished it could be Claude’s name too, but…Claude Crosby actually sounded really weird in his head.  (Sidney Giroux, however, would roll nicely off the tongue.  But not only was it all impossible anyways…just…marriage?  Really?  _That_ was what this sight was making him think of?  Sid needed to stop feeding this thing.)

“As you can see,” Claude said, gesturing to himself, “I’m all yours.”

“Oh, yes you fucking are.”  Sid doesn’t know how he had got up and pinned Claude against the wall so quickly, but here he was, pressing hot, heavy, possessive kisses over his mouth, his face, his neck…

The whimpering moans coming from Claude were sweet and intoxicating…all Sid wanted was to make more of those pretty little sounds.  But Claude was pulling away from him just enough to put a stop to that.  Sid was about to complain when he heard a low chuckle, combined with a grin that was just this side of mischievous.  “See the reaction this got out of you?”

“You in my jersey?”

“Yeah.  Now think about how I’d feel if you wore mine, no matter how repulsive _you_ think it’d be.”

Sid had to pause for a moment to take it all in.  Claude being this turned on, being this possessive and forceful.  “Oh.”

Claude leaned in and started kissing again, but Sid very quickly took back control of the situation.  They only got to have moments like these on occasion, where Claude would open his…no, not his _heart_. 

Something else vulnerable, however.  He let his guard down, let the walls fall…yes, that was a better cliché.  In moments like these, he wasn’t the same man he saw on the ice, and he wasn’t even the same man he presented himself as to the media.  This was more raw, more exposed. 

Sid wasn’t sure why Claude kept coming to him over and over again.  Was he just that good of a lay?  It was certainly enjoyable, that was for sure – and Claude’s sweet, sweet moaning as Sid kept licking at skin as he moved them back over to the hotel bed was certainly a reminder of just how pleasurable and satisfying it was to be together.  But come on, Claude Giroux could hook up with so many other people if he wanted.  Like hockey players on his own team, or at least ones from a franchise that wasn’t his sworn rival.  He could have anyone in this entire damn league if he wanted!  Why would he choose Sidney Crosby?  Superstitious, over-working, obsessed, perfectionist, awkward Sidney Crosby?  It was hard to push away these thoughts, even if Sid knew he needed to stop questioning what was happening to him and just accept that he was the luckiest man on earth to keep getting to enjoy this as often as he did.  The feeling of Claude squirming in pleasure underneath him, the taste of his mouth, his skin…

Yep, stop questioning this.  Enjoy this.  Be happy, god dammit.

But…maybe the doubts kept creeping up because Sid wasn’t sure what Claude really wanted from this.  Was sex really just it?  Could that really be all he was good for?  It sure seemed like it.  After how many years of this, and nothing more seemed to come of it…maybe Sid was an idiot for wishing right now that there could be something more between them…

His thoughts were interrupted with a precisely timed moan from Claude, and Sid knew he needed to just stop thinking for once in his life.  Right here and now is the only thing that matters. 

 

* * *

 

The new season certainly wasn’t starting out in a way the Flyers would have wanted.

In fact, no season in which your general manager _and_ your head coach is fired can bode well for anyone involved.

However, it felt quite par for the course for Claude and his time on the Flyers, especially since he took over the helm of the captaincy.  It was an up and down roller coaster, that was for sure.  You can make the playoffs in a season where there was a 10-game losing streak but miss it when there’s a 10-game win streak.  The Philadelphia Flyers, everyone.

That wasn’t gonna stop Claude from playing the best damn hockey he knew how to play.  He knew now that he wasn’t due to slow down anytime soon.  102 points at age 30?  Watch out, Crosby, the upper-hand was switching up.

But the situation here in Philly sure added more to the chip on his shoulder.  How could it not?  He was entrusted with leading an entire team, and this team had not only missed the playoffs enough times, but when they got in, they continued to elude those Stanley Cup Final glories that Claude had only tasted once…and even then, they lost to the Blackhawks.  Sometimes the nagging doubts set in.  Like that day with all the reporters, asking him what he was doing to try to fix all the things that were absolutely not on him.  But…were they really not on him?  Was there something he had been doing wrong as a leader this whole time?

No, no.  The goalie situation, for example.  That’s not on him.  It honestly could never be on him to fix.  A captain may lead, but a captain certainly can’t keep goalies in tip-top condition or even stop them from getting traded away.  That’s not his problem.

Yet, it seemed like Philly would continue to be the goalie graveyard.

Injury after injury was plaguing their goalies.  It was honestly a mess.  There are only so many backup goalies a team has, so many call-ups to be made, and the Flyers kept exhausting the list.

Next up was a young kid from Lehigh Valley.  “Carter Hart.”

Where this kid came from, no one really knew.  No one could remember when he was drafted or how he was acquired or traded.  Nothing.  He just seemed to poof into existence as a goalie for the AHL.  And it seemed like this mystery kid was the next in a long line of trial and error.

Claude leaned intently towards the screen as he watched some tape from Phantoms games this season, and he could see this Hart had talent.  Immense talent.  How many 20-year-olds can play like that?  Watching these tapes, it was as if all the wishes Claude hadn’t realized he had were about to come true.

The first two games the kid played in the net for were wins.  Things had to get worse, though, before they could get better.  An eight-game losing streak.  Was the hype surrounding Hart maybe a little premature?

Then came the win against Dallas.  Then a little later, an eight-game win streak.

The team that everyone had written off, had suddenly become the hottest team in the league.  Sure, they were still way off from a playoff spot, but hockey was certainly feeling a lot more fun again with all these wins.

So, going up against Pittsburgh at home?  With Hartsy in goal?  And with a victory over them earlier this season?  This was gonna be a piece of cake.

At least, that’s what Claude was thinking when he was unlacing his skates after a productive morning practice.  He was feeling a natural high, an excitement, an eager buzz, ready to meet up at the faceoff circle against Sidney fucking Crosby…

It was surprisingly easy to forget all of the history between them when he was swept up in the thrill of competition.  No number of hook ups with the Penguins’ captain could make him forget just how much hate existed between these two teams, these two cities.  The sex was fun, sure, but that’s all it seemed to be.  No reason existed to go soft on Croz now.  At least not more soft than he did when he submitted in bed…

Claude snapped himself out of his thoughts and glanced out around the dressing room.  Everyone seemed ready to go for their game…except for Hartsy.  In fact, he looked like he was folding in on himself.  That wasn’t good.

When he got the chance to, he pulled Hartsy aside.  “Hey, you look a little out of it.  Does it have anything to do with playing Pittsburgh tomorrow?”

“A…a little.”

“You’re gonna be fine.  Look at you, you’re the only one on this team with a win streak still going for you.  We’ll be here at home, where the fans hate Crosby and the Pens with a passion, and–”

“It’s not that I’m nervous about the game.  Yeah, continuing my win streak would be nice, but you win some, you lose some.  I’m still young, right?”

This kid certainly had a level head on his shoulders.  An early maturity that reminded him of the kind of old soul Crosby could be sometimes.  (If he was thinking about Crosby, it was only because they were playing tomorrow, he rationalized to himself.)  It was a mindset that made Claude feel like this kid was gonna do them good.  No, goalies weren’t the end-all-be-all of a hockey team, but you needed them to be dependable, to be level-headed when things go wrong.  He certainly didn’t envy goalies.

“Then what is it?”

Hartsy took a deep breath, looking down at the floor.  Whatever this kid was gonna say, it couldn’t be good.

“I…I haven’t known how to say this to you.  But I guess ripping it off like a bandage is the best way to go right now.  I’m a wish baby.”

 

* * *

 

Now, wish babies certainly weren’t uncommon.  Most of them were the product of couples that couldn’t have children of their own.  Queer couples, infertility, you name it.  They were also just that, babies.  The young child appeared out of what seemed like nowhere and into the loving home of a family that was desperate for a young one of their own to raise.

According to various scientific journals, the babies seem to be guided by the same laws of genetics that any child created by physical, sexual reproduction would be.  The child was always made up of a share of genetic code of both parents wishing for the kid.  It was entirely theirs.

Babies were certainly still born via pregnancy – after all, sex still happens – but one question that research was currently trying to solve was why after the wish baby phenomenon became realized as a widespread miracle that more couples didn’t just produce babies via wish.  Little wait time, no burden of pregnancy or pain of giving birth for approximately one half of the population…so why didn’t the number of wish babies seem to increase?  Since every couple that wants a child ultimately is _wishing_ for one, why didn’t more of those wishes get granted?  Did it have to be only couples that were physically incapable of having children normally?  Was there a certain way someone had to wish for the child?  What caused a wish baby to form?

As Claude sat on the couch back at his apartment, face in his hands,  his brain still trying to wrap itself around the situation, all he knew was that whatever information people had about wish babies was all wrong.

Firstly, Carter didn’t appear as a baby.  He appeared as a fully fleshed out 20-year-old.  No wonder no one knew where the hell this kid seemed to come from before he was on the Lehigh Valley roster.  They were given information such as a hometown in Alberta and a birthday of August 13, 1998, but where that information came from, Claude didn’t know.  Well, actually, he might know where the date came from.  20 years off, but August 13?

August 13 was that pre-season media event.  The day he was pissed off enough at the media and decided the only things that could possibly cheer him up were sex with Sidney Crosby and just consuming all the complimentary hotel liquor while he was in his room.  Sure, Claude could’ve raided his own stash, but where was the fun in that?  He knew Croz was never gonna drink those himself, at least not when he’s on official NHL business.

He was stressed out.  Sex was a great stress reliever, even if it was ironic that said stress reliever came in the form of Sidney fucking Crosby.  So, he sought the man out.  Maybe he ended up ranting and raving to him more than he expected he’d do, but it worked at least.

Which lead to his next point.  Secondly, if he was making any wishes with Sid that night, it certainly wasn’t for a baby.  He was wishing for people to stop painting him as if he was the worst captain Philadelphia has ever seen, he was wishing that they weren’t right about how fucked up the goalie thing was.  Then of course, maybe he was wishing that the night with Croz didn’t have to end, wishing that–

Wait.

The goalie thing.

Could _that_ have been it?  What was it that Croz had been telling him…Claude’s memories were hazy on specific details – time and booze will do that to you.  Oh, that was right, Crosby was doing that stupidly endearing thing he started doing and admitting that he wanted to see Claude succeed.

A wish baby that wasn’t a baby, but an adult.  Barely one, but old enough to play hockey, and to play hockey _well_.  One that played hockey in a position that desperately, desperately needed fixing on this team.  Would’ve been nicer to have Hartsy on the team a bit sooner, but the kid’s promotion onto the Flyers was soaring them to new heights, helping the team find its groove and confidence again.

It seemed like a good combination of what they both wanted.  Claude wanted the goalie position to finally stabilize.  Croz wanted to see Claude finally get that Stanley Cup.

Carter was just the manifestation of that wish.

Claude only had to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.  Oh Croz…you really just managed to help out your rival.

But…how was he supposed to tell Crosby about this?

Croz had a right to know, to have the same fucked up crisis Claude was having.  Give Hartsy some credit, he was pretty brave to come right out with it and say what he knew.  “I’m a wish baby.  Yours…and Sidney Crosby’s.”  But he also only admitted it because Claude came up and noticed something was off.  Carter did admit “I was debating whether it was worth it to say anything.  I mean, for all intents and purposes, I’m a 20-year-old.  I don’t really need my parents to be _parents_.”

But Carter also felt bad about being disingenuous, about harboring a secret about not just his own captain, but the captain of a rival team he was about to face for the first time.  That, and it was one thing to play alongside your dad…what about facing against your other one?

And that was the kicker.  Claude knew their hookups certainly hadn’t affected the intensity of their rivalry too much.  Sure, it was never gonna reach the level it did in the 2012 playoffs.  There weren’t gonna be 15-minute scrums, Claude would never pull off anything more stellar than The Shift in his career, period.  The two of them certainly weren’t gonna try to fight again.  No, Claude was pretty sure if he ever got the chance to pin Croz down on the ice – or if Croz pinned him down – he’d lose his game focus a little too quickly…

God, curse Sidney Crosby for being so stupidly attractive in the first place.  He’d always been at least a little attracted to those lips, those eyes, that hair, that ass…playing together in Prague made Claude have to come face to face with just how attracted he honestly was, and as it turned out, he couldn’t keep the bet he’d made with himself that he’d be able to keep his hands off the enemy.  The flush of victory was way, way too hot on Crosby.  And yeah, maybe he would’ve been able to win his bet if he hadn’t drunk so much celebratory champagne…but maybe not.  He also hadn’t been able to stop himself from being tactile with Croz, and he knew it got worse and worse as the rounds went on.  It was an itch Claude needed scratched throughout the entire event, and it just finally became too much to handle.

Unfortunately, once you know how good it feels to be with someone, to hear their sighs and moans, to run your hands all over their flushed, sweaty, bruised, scarred body…obviously he kept coming back.  Claude was hooked.  He was gone.  So far gone as to seduce Croz by wearing his Pens jersey.  (A jersey that he may have managed to steal for himself as he ducked out of Crosby’s hotel room after the man had passed out.  He still doesn’t entirely know why he did it.)  Hell, so far gone as to turn to him for comfort, even if that comfort really was just sex.  But it was a different motivation than usual for their hook-ups.  It wasn’t just sex he was seeking out at this point.

But now he could see it was fucking dangerous to do that.  He fucked up and wound up with a kid.  Of course, that wasn’t supposed to happen when the other person you’re fucking has a cock, but whoop-dee-doo, not even that was sacred anymore.  At least he didn’t have to do any sort of parenting duties beyond the moments where captainly duties unfortunately overlapped in similarity – and in those cases, that was a whole team to deal with, not just this one kid.

And now Sid the Kid has a kid, too.  Great.

This was all his goddamn fault.

He let this get too damn far, and now whatever rivalry they had managed to keep regardless of all the sex was likely to fall the fuck apart.  Crosby didn’t hold back against Claude in games, but could he hold back against his own son?  Was he _that_ competitive to do so?

The scary part was…did he even want Croz to be?

He was gonna have to find out.  Claude grabbed his phone out of his pocket, scrolled through his contacts, and shot Croz a quick text.

_I’ve got some news for you before we play tomorrow, but I’m gonna need you to call me.  It’s important._

It took a few hours, but in the middle of eating dinner, Claude’s phone finally rang, with the contact name “SC” flashing on the screen.  Claude’s stomach plummeted, and he took a deep breath to brace himself for whatever would happen next.

“Hello?” Claude greeted.

“You said you had news?” Crosby asked, sounding taken aback.   “Important news?”

“I…I think important might not even be a strong enough word.  World-shattering, maybe…”

“Are you okay?”  Concern was clear as day in Croz’s voice.  Claude could just picture the way his eyebrows would be knitting together right now, eyes going slightly wide.  God, for a man that managed to break both his wrists, Croz knew how to give a shit about him.

“I dunno, how okay can a person be when they learn they have a wish baby?”

“A – a wish baby?  Wait, don’t you live alone?”  Crosby’s voice was picking up speed with urgency.  “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, figuring out who’ll watch the kid while you’ll play tomorrow instead of calling me about it?  Or maybe getting in contact with their other p–”

“See,” Claude began to interrupt, “this is where it gets…weird.  I’ve never heard of this happening before, but the baby’s not a baby.  He’s fully formed as a 20-year-old.”

“How?”

“I don’t know…but I have a theory.”

There was a pause on the line as Croz must’ve been expecting him to elaborate already.  “What’s the theory?”

“Well, umm…”  Claude took a deep breath as he realized what he was gonna have to just spit out here.  “When we hooked up back at that media day, weren’t you saying something about–”

“ _We_?  Claude, wait… _we_?”

“Yeah…I was…getting to that.”

“It’s _our_ 20-year-old baby?”

“Yes.  I know, I know, of all people you could become a dad with–”

“A dad…I’m really a dad…with you.”

Claude blinked in surprise at the sound of Croz’s tone.  It wasn’t a disgusted “with _you_ ” or an angry “ _with you_!”  He couldn’t make out exactly what the emotion was, but it wasn’t the negative response he had honestly been expecting.  “Yeah.  With me.”

“Not exactly how I ever expected to become a parent, but…” Croz’s voice trailed off to gently laugh, a laugh that sounded ridiculous even in its softer forms, and Claude could only smile.

“Me neither.”

“How’d you even find out?  That we had a kid?”

“He told me.  He knew it was us.  Plus, the forged birthdate he was running with for our rosters at least matches up with the day we were at the media event.”

There was another pause on the line as Claude realized he just casually dropped the words “our rosters” into the conversation.  So many bombs of information to keep dropping, it was hard to keep track of it all.

“He’s a Flyer?”  Oh, Crosby sounded offended.  Claude had to bite down how much that actually amused him.

“Only since December, but yes.”

“Since…you mean Carter Hart?”

Okay, he knew Crosby was pretty much a walking hockey encyclopedia, but he hadn’t expected for him to be that on the ball with it.  “Glad you’re keeping up with our players.”

“My son’s a _Flyer_?”

Now the amusement was harder to hide.  “So’s the man you fucked to have your son.  Don’t be so offended.”

“But…but it’s not fair.”  Of course, Croz _would_ find a way to whine about this.  “I won’t get to see him nearly as much.  You get to be his captain, and I’m just…his rival.”  Crosby’s voice went quiet with those last two words.  There was definitely emotion behind it.  Hurt emotion.  This wasn’t whining, this was…actual concern.

Claude didn’t really know what else to say but, “I know, Croz.”

“Fuck.”

“I’m sorry.”  Honestly, he was.

“Why is he a _Flyer_?”  Croz’s voice getting squeakier with disbelief would’ve been far more hysterical if this wasn’t all so fucked up.

“Hey…remember why I came to your room in the first place?”

“I don’t get–”

“I’m getting to your answer,” Claude interrupted, “but first, do you remember?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, you were upset with those interviewers for making it seem like the team’s failures were all your fault.  You drank my alcohol – thanks for making the hotel charge me more – then you complained a bit, then I felt sorry for you and wished that I could fix things, then–”

“There it is!” Claude interrupted again.  Right on the money.  “You _wished_.”

“That…that created…it works like that?”

“It must.  Because I certainly don’t remember wishing for a _baby_.”

“Well, I guess this is just God telling me that I got too close to my enemy.  Congrats, you wanna fraternize with them?  Alright, let’s just see how you feel when your kid’s one of them!”

This was taking a turn for the negative again.  “Croz…”

“It’s one thing when I have to play against you.  We were rivals first.  We’re stubborn, competitive asses, and that’s not gonna change no matter how close we get.  But I have to play against my own son?  Someone I should be loving unconditionally?  Someone I should be nurturing to, not…not this.”

“He’s full grown, for the most part.  Old enough to play in the big leagues with his dads.  He doesn’t need the coddling and protection that a five-year-old does.”

“No, maybe he doesn’t…but a grown kid doesn’t stop being loved by his parents.  And I can’t show him love on the ice.  You can, but I can’t.  And I don’t know how much time I’ll get with him outside of games.  What if the rivalry is too much to overcome in this case?  Claude…what if Carter…what if our son grows to… _hate_ me?”

The word “hate” was cracked in Croz’s mouth.  There was more emotion in that statement than Claude expected to hear out of him, and Claude realized he really, really didn’t like the idea of Crosby being heartbroken like this.

“Look…Carter told me about being his parents because he didn’t want _you_ to hate _him_.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  It’s just a game.  He knows that, you know that.  It’ll be fine.  It’ll be okay.  Don’t believe me?  Meet up outside the stadium after the game.  Meet your kid.  There’ll be no love lost, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Fuck Sidney Crosby.

The game ended 4-1 in favor of the Pens.  “Should’ve at least been 4-2!” came shouts from various players.  The refs were a little trigger happy with their whistles tonight, blowing dead a play that blatantly wasn’t dead and preventing Patty’s clear goal from ever counting.  When was the last time that ref had an eye test?  Or worse, did the doctor mess up somewhere and let him just go around with vision that poor?

If it weren’t for the media that always hovered around in the dressing room, if it weren’t for the fact that Claude needed to keep some semblance of captainly composure even without cameras and microphones for the sake of his team, he would have been ready to start smashing sticks until he couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Fuck Sidney Crosby.  Fuck him to fucking hell.  He could burn and rot and whatever fucking else.

How could he and the rest of his fucking no-good dirty team do that?

After being so hurt over the phone about how he didn’t want to do this to his son, about not wanting the kid to grow to hate him…he fucking scored on him.  Granted, was it a weird bounce?  Yes.  Most definitely yes.  Only one person on the ice knew where the fuck that puck wound up, and _of course_ that person was Sidney fucking Crosby.  Maybe it’s less guilt-inducing to score on your kid when he can’t see it coming.  Though was it less so that it’s okay to just celly like that afterwards?

So less so that you just let your team tear into your son’s confidence?  To ruin his chance of breaking a rookie record?

God, Crosby was a better actor than he was supposed to be.  All those dives he took, Claude never knew how the refs didn’t see through them.  (It’s probably because he has the whole league eating out of the palm of his hand.  Don’t have to act well when they’re in cahoots with you.)  But no, he was saving up the true Emmy-winning performance for that moment on the phone, tricking Claude into thinking that maybe he had some compassion, that he wouldn’t fucking do this.

Maybe that penalty he took not long after Crosby’s goal was from sloppy play due to anger.  Just maybe.

And yeah, he’s mad at the rest of the Penguins as well.  Like fucking Malkin, he could’ve really hurt Raffl with that that stunt.  Would the NHL ever suspend that guy?

Claude managed to fool everyone into thinking he was just at regular levels of negative emotion from a loss to their rivals – though probably not as well as Crosby fooled him – before finally packing up his stuff and storming out of the building.

Right into the motherfucker himself.

“What are you doing here?  Come to gloat?”

“What?  Claude, has losing clouded your brain?  I came here to meet…” Crosby looked skittishly around him before finishing with, “you know who…”

“After scoring on him.  Yeah, definitely here to gloat.”

Crosby shot him an offended look, as if he had any right to look offended.  “No, to tell him I’m sorry.  To tell him ‘hey, nothing personal, kid.’  To assure him that I don’t hate him, like you told me he’s afraid I would!”

“Oh?  Because I was pretty convinced you certainly don’t give a shit about him.”

“ _What_?”  Crosby looked even more offended, if that was even possible.  “How can you think that?”

How could he think that?  God, what a piece of shit.  “You and your team had to go and destroy him!”

“It was one loss!  Yeah, do I wish that maybe I hadn’t been the one to start the scoring?  Sure!”

Claude crossed his arms as he said, “That celly tells me otherwise.”

“What, I’m just supposed to be moping around afterwards?  What, do you want me to expose the fact he’s my kid to everyone?  That he’s _our_ kid?  I have to at least act to the rest of the fucking world that things are business as normal!”

“You could at least show some more remorse about it.”

Crosby looked ready to just explode on the spot.  “Why do you think I said I want to apologize to him?  Is this not enough?”

Suddenly the sound of the arena doors opening startled the argument away.  Oh, fuck, who heard them? When it was just Carter coming out, Claude sighed in relief, but then promptly boiled up again.  No, Carter didn’t need to be put in the middle of this.

“Hey, everything okay?  Couldn’t make out what you’re arguing over, but it sounds bad.  Should I be, umm…should this family reunion thing be happening another time?”

“No,” Crosby answered.  Why, Crosby, why?  “No, you should be here.”

“Are you sure?”  Hartsy looked hesitant, as he should be.

“Yeah.”  Claude was really gonna murder Crosby.  “Though, I’m not sure my plans of us all heading over to Claude’s apartment for this are gonna work out now.”

Claude shot Crosby a confused glance.  “You’re inviting yourself to my apartment?”

Crosby gave him a pathetic look back. “You say that like I haven’t done that before.  Or like you haven’t invited yourself to my house.”

“Yeah, but for…” For sex.  Okay, yes, Carter was for all intents and purposes a 20-year-old.  But no child, no matter how old, wants the mental image of their parents doing _that_.  “But not for anything so serious.”

“I just thought family bonding would work out best at home?”

Family bonding.  Crosby really came here for family bonding after this?

“I’d like that,” Carter said, and Claude could see he was looking down at his other dad – which would be funnier if Claude wasn’t also equally as short – with eager eyes.  Carter really wanted this.

Oh.

“If that’s what you both want,” Claude reluctantly muttered, “then fine.”

“Claude,” Crosby started, “if you’re not okay with this–”

“Croz, I just said it’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Was it really fine?  No, not entirely.  And the way Crosby was looking at him, Claude knew that the pain in the ass in front of him saw right through the bullshit.

But Claude also wasn’t _that_ much of an asshole as to tell his rookie goalie, who also just so happens to be _his wish child_ , “no.”  Especially not to something that, honestly, seemed able to make him happy.

Parenting was weird.

 

* * *

 

“Wait, Flower did _what_?”

Claude would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t expect that Crosby would be bonding with a goalie by gushing over Marc-André Fleury.  It was so typically Sidney Crosby that it almost hurt.

“Would I be making this up?” Crosby shot back.

“I don’t know…” Hartsy answered.  “Probably not?”

Claude was in the kitchen, plating the grilled cheese sandwiches he made for everyone.  Okay, so maybe he couldn’t judge Crosby for being a living parody of himself, when here he was being Claude Giroux, grilled cheese connoisseur.  But dammit, losing a game to your biggest rivals and being pissed off at your…your…whatever the fuck Crosby was supposed to be in his life other than just, well, _Croz_ , comfort food was needed.

He was in the kitchen, but the living room was still in clear view, and of course he had to look over at Hartsy and Crosby.  Hartsy was sitting on one end of the couch, and Croz was perched on the reclining chair next to it.  From his vantage point, both of them happened to be profile, making it too easy to compare them.  If wish babies were truly a combination of both parents’ genetics, Carter seemed to get more of it from the Penguin’s half.  It wasn’t perfect, but there was just enough similarity in their faces that it seemed to prove that theory.  Yet, it was just different enough that maybe the media would never catch on.

Because it couldn’t.  This could never get out.

Sidney Crosby and Claude Giroux have a wish child.

Yeah, that would totally be accepted by the NHL and by Penguins fans and Flyers fans and just hockey fans in general…completely.

But hey, if he could hook up with Croz for what would be going on four years this summer without getting caught, hiding Carter’s parentage should be a piece of cake.

It was still hard to wrap his head around, though.  They were _parents_.  Claude didn’t feel like he was old enough to actually be a dad, no matter how much the team liked to tease him for being “old.”  But, then again, at 31, most people were settled down.  Married with a baby on the way.  Just because Claude felt young at heart didn’t mean he was.

And really, in the eyes of the NHL, he certainly wasn’t.  Carter was young.  He was the youthful goaltender full of potential.  Every year, the rookies seemed to get younger and younger, but really, it was just that Claude was getting older.  And now he had a kid to prove it.

Fun things to think about as you’re making grilled cheese.

“Alright, I’ve made enough for everyone,” Claude announced as he brought the plate of sandwiches over to the living room.

Hartsy eagerly grabbed a grilled cheese while Croz just looked up at Claude with an easily readable expression on his face, one that said, “Do you even know how to cook anything else?”  Claude just looked back, hoping his face accurately expressed his own response: “Fuck off, I barely want you here right now.”

It must’ve worked, because Croz looked away almost ashamed and just picked up one of the sandwiches.  “Carter, get used to these around him.”

Yeah, they definitely got too close.  Far too close to just be fuckbuddies anymore.  Carter’s existence may have woken him up to that fact, but being able to communicate with just facial expressions?  People that were just fuckbuddies couldn’t do that, could they?

Fuck.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Carter said, looking up at Claude.  “You’re lucky I like grilled cheese.”

“Yep, you’re definitely my kid,” Claude said, laughing to himself as he sat down on the couch next to Hartsy.  “Definitely mine.”

“Though, if I really had to pick a favorite sandwich–”

“Oh no.”  Claude knew where this was going.  Croz seemed to, too, as he leaned in ever so slightly.

“It would have to be pb&j.”

Crosby nearly jumped out of his seat as he pointed a finger – “Ha!” – at Claude.  “I’ve told you it’s the better sandwich!”

“Fuck off,” Claude snarled.  “I’m sorry you have bad taste buds.  _Both_ of you.”

“Are you sure he’s really supposed to be a Flyer?”  Crosby had a smirk on his face.  Bastard.  “I think we’re getting along too much for that, eh?”

“Hey!” Claude pointed at himself with both hands.  “You put up with this Flyer well enough.”

“Put up with, sure.”  Croz rolled his eyes at him.  “But get along?  Nah.”

Carter started laughing beside them, amused with the situation.  “You know, this actually leads me to something I wanted to ask.”

Two voices responded in unison: “Yeah?”

Claude looked over at Croz, who was just staring in mild surprise at him.  “Don’t do that.”

“Didn’t plan to,” Crosby admitted sheepishly.

“I wanted to ask,” Carter said, getting his parents’ attention back, “How you had me.  I mean…I know _how_.  I know the birds and the bees.”

Croz must’ve picked a bad time to take a bite of his sandwich, because Claude could hear him start to choke on it a little.

When it seemed sure that Crosby was fine, Hartsy kept going.  “What I mean more is…aren’t you two supposed to hate each other?  You two seem to be capable of putting the rivalry aside long enough, but you still argue and bicker.  I thought wish babies were born of couples that lo–”

“ _Don’t_ say it!”  Claude knew what that word was gonna be.  Love.  And why the hell would it be love?  They didn’t…they couldn’t!  It was impossible!  Sure, Claude couldn’t resist Crosby.  He kept being pulled in, even when he was pissed off and angry at him (like right now)…couldn’t keep away no matter how hard he tried.  Hell, sometimes, when Croz had to take off with the team early in the morning, and Claude woke up to find he was all alone in his Philly apartment, his heart ached a little.  But…that wasn’t _love_.  He was just in this for the sex.  And to make fun of Croz.  And to maybe laugh around with him sometimes.  But not love.

He saw Hartsy and Croz both looking at him with shocked expressions.  “Sorry, that was…” Claude sighed as he tried to gather his thoughts.  “If I’m being honest, I don’t know how Croz and I got in this situation.  I don’t.  We’re not even sure what we wished for.  I certainly wasn’t wishing for a baby, or even a 20-year-old.  I think we managed to break all the rules, including…that one.”  The love one.

“Actually, we have a theory…” Croz drawled out.

“Yeah, but can you even prove it right now?”  Claude stared at Croz a tad concerned.  He didn’t want Crosby to admit that maybe Carter was brought into existence for the purpose of winning the Stanley Cup.  Now that he was thinking about it, with Hartsy right beside him, that was a stupidly selfish reason for bringing a kid into the world.

“True…but I hope you will.  Soon.”  And fuck.  Croz had a stupid, fond look on his face, a small smile, and eyes gone all soft.  God, this man really wanted to see Claude lift the Stanley Cup.  What happened to the real Sidney Crosby, the Penguins’ captain who was so determined to stop the Flyers at any cost that he’d go so far as to break wrists?  (Though, joke’s on him, because who made it to Round 2 that year?)

Fuck, they really had gotten too close.

And yet…wasn’t this better than hating each other?

“Either way, we have you now,” Claude said to Carter, desperately trying to change the subject.  Well, the subject in his brain, but still.  “Might not know how we do, but you’re a pretty good kid to have around.  I’m proud of you.”  This was getting sappy fast.

“Even when I wasn’t very good tonight?”  Claude could feel some of that anger that he had, somehow, done a good job of pushing down between Wells Fargo and his apartment rise up again.

“Hey,” Croz spoke up, “I thought I told you, don’t beat yourself up for this.  It’s not your fault my team gets the better of yours every so often.”

Claude shot him a look.  “Yeah, because it’s _your_ fault, Croz.”

Crosby looked ready to argue, but he realized it was useless to try.  “…okay, yeah, Claude’s right, it is at least partially my fault.”

“Partially?  Most of your away game points are racked up on _our_ ice.  Including tonight.”

“On a fluke bounce.  I was just lucky to be where I was.”

“Like luck has anything to do with it when you’re Sidney fucking Crosby.”

Carter began to groan into the palms of his hands.  “It’s a fucking miracle I was ever born.”

Claude immediately burst into laughter, and he could hear Croz’s honking join in.  Yeah, they were a pretty impossible pair.

But maybe that’s why it worked.

When the laughter died down and silence filled the room, Croz took the opportunity to reach out and place a comforting hand on Carter.  “But as I was saying…this rivalry, it’s fucked up.  You can never really expect the games to go one way or another.  Having a bad game like that?  They happen, yeah, and they’re gonna happen a lot against me and the Pens.  But it’s not something to beat yourself up over.  It’s just…the rivalry.”

Croz was sincere.  Absolutely, completely sincere.

Which meant…fuck.

“Sid?”

The man looked up at him, and Claude felt himself start to heat up from the embarrassment, from the intensity of the stare directed at him.

“I…I’m sorry…for earlier.”

Sid didn’t say anything, and the expression on his face was unreadable.  Claude never really needed to go out of his way to apologize to Crosby before.  Well, an apology beyond a sarcastic “sorry for kicking your ass tonight, but, you know, we’re just the better team” before he was eventually shut up with a forceful kiss…though Claude always gained the upper hand in sex when Croz lost.  God, that only made winning more worth it.

But yes, apologies were not how they did things.  Claude didn’t even want to apologize in the first place, even if the nagging voice in his head all the way on the drive to the apartment was already contradicting his outburst.  But even if the apology was struggling to come out, it was happening anyways, and Claude couldn’t seem to stop it.

“All of this is new and weird, and I guess…I didn’t…” Claude sighed as he struggled to find the words.  “Even though we both just found out the truth, I’ve already been looking out for Hartsy as a captain and teammate for months now.  And you…”

“I get it,” Croz interrupted.

“Hey, I’m not done.”

“No, but you look like you’re about to pull a face muscle.”  Did he?  “I know what I told you yesterday, and I know the outcome of this game wasn’t the best for you two.  It’s not easy to balance all this…it’s just a game, but it’s also our careers.  I mean…say it was the opposite.  Say Carter had been in net for the Pens this whole time instead.  Would you go easy on him?”

“No,” Claude said, starting to laugh.  “I don’t go easy on him in practice as it is.”

Carter shot him an exasperated look.  “No, no you don’t.”

“And I doubt that’s gonna change, Hartsy.  Wanna get better?  Only one way how.”

Croz shifted around in his seat before saying “And is there more of a challenge for you than going up against…what did you call me, Claude…Sidney fucking Crosby?”  Claude wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin off of Croz’s face immediately.

“Don’t get cocky, you’re not that good.”

Out of the corner of Claude’s eye, he saw Carter pick up his phone as it lit up with a text.  “Oh…fuck,” Hartsy muttered.

“Language,” Claude joked.

Hartsy shot him a look.  “Like _you_ can judge me for that.”

“Yes, I can.  I’m your father.”

“I just realized how late it is.”  Carter got up from his spot on the couch and went to grab his coat.  “I should probably be leaving.”

Croz got up too and went over to hug to Carter.  Then he was beckoning Claude over.  “Group hug?”

Claude wasn’t sure if he should, but then again…they were a family.  The three of them.  Fuck.  This was still gonna need to take some getting used to.

Claude went and joined them, trying not to think about the awkwardness of it all.  Yeah, he cared about Hartsy.  Yeah, this was certainly not even the most intimate way he’s touched Crosby.  But it was still…different.  A level that he didn’t know how to fully process yet.

He let go early to let Croz have the chance to just hold onto his son alone a bit longer.  Sure, it wouldn’t be that long until the next matchup between them, but Claude got to see him pretty much every day between games and practice and team bonding.  Sid didn’t get that.  Sid would never get to know Carter the way Claude already has, the way he will continue to.

Yeah, swallowing his pride and letting Sid visit was a good thing.

Sid spoke low enough that Claude knew these words were just for Carter, but not low enough that Claude couldn’t hear: “I know we just met and all, but I’m proud of you, eh?  So proud.  And I love you, even if you are a Flyer.”

“I love you, too.” Carter pulled away from Sid and came and gave Claude another hug.  “Don’t worry, I also love you.”

“What, making sure he doesn’t get pouty and jealous, eh?” Croz chirped.

“Hey, I don’t get pouty,” Claude complained.

“Didn’t deny jealous.”

“Shut up, Croz.  And hey, I love you too, Hartsy.”  Even if this whole family aspect was weird, even if the word had freaked him out in regards to Crosby, it wasn’t hard to say he loved Hartsy.  Carter was his teammate, and if there was anything Claude knew how to do, it was to love his team.

With that, Carter showed himself out of the apartment, leaving Claude and Croz together.  Alone.

“Don’t you have a hotel to get back to?” Claude asked.

“I mean, I could go back.  But I got cleared to be gone for the night, so I could stay and just do this?”  Croz walked right up, pulled Claude in close, and kissed him like he’d never been kissed before.  It was breathtaking and intoxicating and oh so _Sid_.  Claude knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with just one kiss, wouldn’t be until he was ravished completely.

“I…I think the last one sounds better.”

“I’m glad you think so.  Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Either Sid was less of an open book when it came to romantic feelings than he thought, or Claude Giroux was just that fucking dense.

He felt like he was just oozing love all over the place.  Way too much of it.

But having a kid together?  Didn’t that change things?  Was he actually allowed to let himself get his hopes up about them now?

Everything about that night felt different.  The closest experience he could think of was when they were on Team Canada together and acted like friends.  It was light, it was mostly casual…even after Carter left, there was something different in the air that charged between them.  The sex…it wasn’t exactly making love, but it was dangerously close.

The touches felt softer, the kisses lingered longer, they spent more time than usual staring right into each other’s eyes…it was easy to get lost in the intensity of Claude’s eyes, to just stare into them and forget to do much else.  When he got caught up like that, Sid often brushed his thumb along the scar on his cheek, a sort of silent gesture of appreciation for every little detail of the man he was with.

He felt like was so close to slipping, to just bursting out “I love you.”  I love your eyes that both twinkle with glee and burn with a deadly inferno.  Your mouth that smiles lopsided, toothy grins, that spits out curses and subtle chirps, can burst out laughs, and has lips so soft and a bite so deadly, it brings me to pieces.  Your competitive fire, your fun-loving spirit, your perfect blend of seriousness and playfulness…I love _you_.

How did Claude not see it?

Carter had it right.  You need _love_ to bring a wish child into the world.  Why did Claude shut that down so fast?

But…Claude was also right that neither of them was thinking of babies or children or anything like that.  But Sid knew he was thinking of love.  So much love.  A love that just wanted to do anything for Claude in that moment to make him happy.

Guess that anything was to help give the Flyers the ticket they needed for a Stanley Cup run.

God, how did Claude not already see it?  How did Claude not realize how in love Sid had to be in order to wish for _that_ for him, to be so stupidly foolish as to wish for another team to win the Stanley Cup?  Yeah, yeah, sure Sid had already won it three times, but you don’t stop trying to win it again.  It’s an addicting feeling to lift the Cup in celebration.  There’s a reason everyone chased it.

But if it was Sid’s love for Claude that helped bring Carter into this world…did this mean…did Claude…?

No.

Sid couldn’t get his hopes up.

Not when Claude didn’t even want to bring up the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there had to be love between them for this whole thing to happen.  Sid knew why Carter was probing, because he’s just as confused as they are.  How does a wish baby happen without being a baby?  It’s unheard of.  It’s honestly a good thing he and Claude already have to hide what’s going on between them, because the news of this getting out?  He did not want to be involved in any sort of experiment on wish children, thank you.  But none of this made any sense, and Carter was trying to get at some of the pieces.  But…Claude just shut down one of the most commonly understood aspects of wish babies.  Love.

Was it because Claude was absolutely, adamantly not in love with him?  Did…did Claude actually understand that this meant Sid loved him, but didn’t want to talk about it because he didn’t want to deal with it?

But…if that was the case…then why keep him around?  Why not confront him about it?  Why let him stay the night, why take him into bed and let Sid oh so gently, so tenderly, so lovingly fuck him?

Or…did Claude shut it down because…because he _does_ love Sid back…but he doesn’t want to talk about it…isn’t ready to?

Sid wanted nothing more than to ask him.  But if Claude wasn’t ready, why pressure him?  That wouldn’t do any good.  It might just push Claude further away. Or…maybe Claude doesn’t know.  Doesn’t love him.  And Sid just ruins everything in one go.

No, if anything’s gonna happen, Sid’s not gonna press the issue.

Until then, he’s just gonna have to press his mouth up to Claude’s whenever they’re alone to stop himself from spilling the words he so desperately needs to say.  Because kisses are fine.  Kisses are normal enough.  This love…is not.

But Sid will take whatever he can get, because it’s too late.  He’s too far gone.  He needs Claude in his life.  Would rather have him like this than not at all.

 

* * *

 

Why did the weather have to warm up?  Why was it being so rainy?  Why was Pennsylvania incapable of having a consistent winter?

Claude was getting soaked as he walked through the Philadelphia streets and to the hotel that Croz was staying at, because he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, and the hotel was close enough to the Linc that driving and finding parking didn’t seem worth it.  Even though it was usually riskier to tread through the enemy territory that was the visiting team’s hotel, they still always knew where the other was staying at. It had become a habit between them anymore, a new ritual specifically for these rivalry games.  Soon as Sid entered Philly or Claude entered Pittsburgh, it was time to shoot out a text saying they made it safe and where they’d be staying at.

Claude honestly can’t remember when or how it began.  But wasn’t that just most things in their relationship?  When did Sid become someone he felt he could trust?  When did being around Sid go from making his blood boil with hatred to making his gut clench with butterflies?  When did they ever get close enough that the universe granted them a kid?

Carter.  Oh, Hartsy.

Sid was not gonna be happy about this news.  But he needed to know before it went public in the morning.

He had a feeling Croz, being the old soul he was, wouldn’t be out and about soaking up the night life in Philly, but he still realized he should probably send a text.  But not until he’d already made his way into the hotel lobby.  _You in your hotel room?_

Thankfully Crosby responded quickly.

_SC: Yeah._

_SC: Wait, why?_

Good question.  Claude typed back: _Need to talk, would rather do it in person_

_SC: Why here? Why can’t I just come to your place?_

Another good question.  In fact, that was probably a much better idea.  _I wasn’t thinking_

_SC: Are you ever?_

Rude.  _What room?_

_SC: 324._

_SC: I see you ignoring that question._

Claude frantically knocked on Croz’s door a few minutes later.  When it opened, Crosby was staring at him in shock.  “How did you–”

“I was already here.  And I wasn’t ignoring your chirp because you got the upper hand, but because I’ve got other things on my mind.”

Croz let him inside and closed the door behind them.  “Is this becoming a new habit?  You crashing my hotel room when you’ve got something going on?”

“I hope not,” Claude groaned as he made himself comfortable on Crosby’s bed.  “But this is something you should know about, so here I am.”

“What is it?”

“Carter’s hurt.  Lower body injury.  They say he probably can’t play for at least 10 days.”

“What?”  Crosby looked more worried out of his mind than Claude had expected him to be.  “I thought they said he was a healthy scratch?”

“He was, initially.  Turns out our kid thought it would be a good idea to try to play through an injury.  Only at practice tonight did he realize it’s too much.  I think I’ve been rubbing off on him too much…” Claude looked down at his wrists.  Maybe not his best idea ever to keep playing on into the next round of the playoffs after what Croz had done to them.  He had his fair share of doctors telling him he was lucky the injuries weren’t worse.  He also maybe shouldn’t have gone on to try to play beer pong while they were healing, but when did Claude let anything stop him from having fun when he wanted it?

Croz’s legs almost seemed to collapse on him with how hard Claude watched him hit the bed beside him.  “He’s only how far into his NHL career, and he’s getting injured.”

“I know.  I don’t like it either.  I know it’s just how hockey is, injuries happen, but…” Claude trailed off as he realized he didn’t have the words to explain how he felt.

“And I was afraid I wouldn’t have any influence on the kid.”

Claude looked at Croz confused.  “I don’t understand.”

“But now that I see I do…” Crosby continued, just as cryptic as before, “fuck, just wait until he gets riddled with concussions…”

Oh. Now it made sense.

Sid’s eyes lit up in panic as he leaned over and started to knock on the wooden bedtable beside him.  “I better not have just set that in motion.”  Always the paranoid, superstitious basket case.

“Sid, he’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that?  How do you know this won’t end badly for him?  I don’t wanna see anything worse for him.  Hockey nearly took everything away from me…”  Sid didn’t seem able to meet Claude’s glance anymore.  “And I’m still not the same I once was.  I never will be.”

Claude reached out and placed a comforting hand on Sid’s shoulder.  “Yeah, and guess what?  You keep playing.  You keep engaging in the sport that caused your concussions in the first place.”

“Because it’s the only thing I know how to do…the only thing planned for me.  Without hockey…who am I?”

“You’re Sid.  A stupid, nerdy…giggly, caring…charming…superstitious, overly-competitive asshole.”  So maybe it took Claude a bit to think of all the right words.  But they were accurate.

Sid just beamed at Claude.  That was a smile he wouldn’t mind causing a few more times.

“Claude, I…” Whatever Sid was going to say seemed to choke itself off.  Before Claude could ask what was wrong, Sid found the words to say something else.  “Oh, just come here.”

Sid reached out beside him and wrapped his arms around Claude, pulling him in for a frantic kiss.  Claude felt himself leaning further into Sid, ready to start guiding him to lie down onto the bed, but before he could do that, Sid was already pulling away.

“Thank you,” Sid said as he untangled his arms from Claude and let them fall back down to his sides.

Claude furrowed his brows together in confusion.  “Wait, that was just a kiss?”

“Yeah.”  Crosby said it so matter-of-fact that it almost pissed him off.

“Why?”

“Just wanted to.”

This was a shift in their relationship that Claude was actually picking up on, and this time he was not going to let it slide unnoticed.  “For complimenting you?  Since when do we just…kiss?”

“It wasn’t just a compliment.  Do you know how it feels for people to just think of you as one thing and one thing only?  To the world, I’m just some…” Crosby looked away from Claude again.  “…some hockey robot.  Yeah, I know, I’m aware that since I enforce my privacy so much more than most, I don’t give people a glimpse into what makes me human.  It gets to me, sometimes.  But come on, to hear from your biggest rival that no, I’m more than just the game I play, how could I not wanna kiss you, eh?  You actually see _me_.”

“If you think you’re more than just hockey, then what was the life crisis about?”

“Just because there’s more to me than hockey doesn’t mean that hockey’s not the only thing I’m good at.  No, if I gave up hockey, I’d just be sitting around in retirement in Cole Harbour doing nothing.”

Claude saw the opportunity to get back to why he even came here in the first place.  “You do realize that Carter probably feels the same way?  That there’s nothing else he knows how to do?”

“Yeah,” Crosby started to laugh.  “He did just…pop out of the air as a goalie.”

“Are you really gonna try to ask him to stop playing?”

“No…I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Claude sighed in agreement.  “Welcome to being a parent.  We’ll be worried about Hartsy for the rest of our lives.”

“I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“A lot of parents aren’t.”

“Thanks for letting me know, though.”

Claude shrugged off the gratitude with a wave of his hand.  “I couldn’t have you finding out by some news report.  Not about your son.”

“You know, I think I’ve also got some choice compliments to describe you.”

Oh no, Sid… “Don’t.”

“Thoughtful.”

Claude wasn’t gonna let this slide.  “Didn’t you say I don’t think?”

“Right, poor word choice.” Sid’s face scrunched up in concentration.  “Considerate?”

“Stop.”

Sid’s grin told him that stopping wasn’t gonna happen any time soon.  “Playful.”

“Please.”  Claude could feel himself heating up with embarrassment.

“Witty.”

“Shut up.”

“Gorgeous.”

“That’s not even about my personality!” Claude said, standing up off the bed with indignance.

“But it’s true.”

Claude whipped himself around to stare down at Sid.  “Could you maybe stop being a sap?  Like I’ve been asking?”

“You haven’t been asking.  You’ve commanded.”

Claude just sighed.  “Has this really been one of those ‘you need to ask nicely’ things?”

“No…but maybe now…” What an asshole.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Dammit, Sid was right.

And it was a little scary just how right he was.  Which made Claude feel like drinking.

“Can I raid the booze in the fridge again?”

“Claude!”

 

* * *

 

"I thought you said I shouldn’t play through injury.  How is _this_ any worse?”

Carter was standing above Claude in the dressing room, only half his padding on, because someone had to stop what he was doing and come over and be concerned about his dad’s health.

“I know what my body can handle.  I’ve been doing this longer than you, remember?”

“Just…be careful.  We need you.”

“I know.  Why do you think I’m playing?”

It was probably a little foolish.  Carter was, honestly, right to be concerned.  Maybe if this was at any other point of the season, Claude would do the sensible thing and let himself rest.  (Or maybe not.  Did he really know the meaning of the word “sensible”?)

But their playoff hopes are hanging by an absolute thread.

Going down both games of a back-to-back against Washington and Toronto was absolutely not allowed at this point, and yet that’s exactly what they did.  And if there was any team that would gleefully slam another nail into the coffin that was the Flyers’ season, the Pittsburgh Penguins would be the happiest of all to do it.

What a nightmare.

But nightmares are exactly when a team needs their captain.  Claude would be damned if he had to watch the Pens ruin their playoff chances while he was lying in bed in some stupid Pittsburgh hotel.  No, if they were going down, he was going down with them.  And if they were gonna pull off a miracle ending to the season, then he had to be the one to rally them.

If that meant somehow trying to keep down food and get an IV to even be well enough to be cleared for play?  Well, that was exactly what he did.  Don’t let anyone say he was a selfish captain.

Skating out onto the ice for warmups was somehow grounding and disorienting at once.  The feel of ice under his skates, the familiar routines, it all was a reminder of what he was here for, what he was good at, what he had to do.  And it was certainly a comfort to see some fans in Flyers orange at this end of the rink.  Even in Pittsburgh, there were people here for them, hoping for a massive upset to the home team, for that fleeting chance at the playoffs…being out here was as much for his team as it was for these fans.

Yet he still could feel the effects of the flu on his body.  Nobody said this would be easy.  Slowing himself down and stopping over the faceoff dot, he crouched down and just let himself breathe a little.  In and out, in and out…

It’ll be fine.  Completely fine.  Just some time to adjust is all that’s needed.  He’ll be fine.

 

* * *

 

He was not fine.  Throwing up into the toilet was _not fine_ , no matter how much you’re also still riding a victory high.  So much for all the food he managed to eat.

All Claude wanted to do at this point was curl up under the covers and sleep.  Thank fuck they weren’t making him go back to Philly tonight.

During the game, things seemed to start feeling better.  It was a pretty decent effort he put up, even getting a puck to the back of the net, though it ultimately wouldn’t count (you just had to be offsides, didn’t you, Jakey).  For a while, he thought perhaps this flu was on its way out.

Nope.  That was just game-time adrenaline kicking in.  Once that wore off, it was back to feeling sick in full force.

He forced himself up off the bathroom floor, flushed the toilet, and even managed to brush his teeth.  But after that, he wanted to do nothing else but be dead to the world.

The knocking on the bedroom door had other plans.

“Fuck…” he spit out, rinsing off his toothbrush.  Once he turned off the sink, he dragged himself along the room to the door.  “Why are we bothering me?” he said, partially to himself, partially to whatever teammate had to be behind that door.  “This better be worth it.”

Claude swung it open to find Croz standing there.  Well, this wasn’t expected.  Crosby wasn’t initially looking at the door, but rather glancing off to the side, and his posture looked tense.  He seemed afraid of getting caught.

Damn him.

“I’m sick.”

“I know.” Croz’s voice was low, as if he was afraid someone would immediately recognize him in this empty hallway.  “Can you please let me in?  I promise I won’t stay long.”

“Fine.”

Claude turned around, and while Crosby followed him in, he decided to get in his bed anyways.  Croz can just turn out all the lights for him on the way out.  He was too stick for this shit.

“I actually brought this for you.”  Croz set a travel mug onto the bedside table.  Claude wasn’t even aware he had anything with him.  “Lemon and honey tea always helps when I’m sick.  Maybe it’ll work for you?”

Claude just stared at the mug and then at Sid.  “You just came here to take care of me?”

“Yeah.”  Again, so matter-fact, as if this was just _normal_ between them.

“Even after we stole a victory at the last second out from you?  Again?”

“Not like I played well.  Though…Carter?” Sid was beaming.  “God, our kid can play!”  There was a reason Hartsy got the first star tonight.  He was in spectacular form tonight, saving the Flyers on more occasions than Claude could count.  “Not that it should be surprising.  He’s our kid.”

“He really is.”  Claude leaned over and grabbed the mug off the table.  It would be rude to turn Sid away without at least trying a sip of the tea first, right?  “I’m proud of him.”

“I can’t promise it to be a miracle cure,” Sid said, nodding his head at the tea.  “I just…I felt like I had to do something.”

“Why?”  Claude took a sip of his drink at then, and the heat of the tea felt good down his throat.  Even if it wasn’t a cure-all, it at least tasted good.

“Because…I’ve been worried.”

Claude felt his stomach clench with something that wasn’t the flu.  “Is that why you played like shit?”

Sid just turned away, looking bashful.  God dammit, Sid.

“I actually played better than you,” Claude added, “and I feel like I’m dying.”

Sid looked back at him again.  “You say that like there haven’t been games where you’re just better than me.”

Claude just smiled before taking another sip.  “Glad you can admit that.”

“I’m not perfect.  I’m not the best at everything.  Sure, I strive to be, but only because I owe it to myself to push as hard as I can.  And I’ve got a list of players I gotta keep up with.  You’ve been pretty consistently one of them.”

Claude could only smile some more. “You’re just gonna have to try harder next year, then.”

“Hey, we could always meet up in the playoffs again.”

“Maybe.  If we get there first.”  Claude took another drink to help hide his face from revealing how he was really feeling.

Because if he was being honest with himself, things felt grim.  Even with this victory over the Pens, these haven’t been easy wins lately.  In fact, most of their play has been sloppy.  They’ve suffered too many crushing losses, too.  They dug themselves into such a huge hole in the first half of the season, and sure, maybe throughout these past few weeks it felt like they could really make a swing for the postseason, but now?  Now it just felt like the noose was tightening.  The teams above them were being just consistently good enough that even though the Flyers were catching up, everyone else was still holding their ground.  The Flyers can’t afford to lose anymore, _and_ they have to hope other teams lose enough.

But Claude was never gonna tell anyone how he felt about this right now.  He’d be honest enough, that it’s a difficult road ahead, and of course he’d never just pack it in.  He wouldn’t have gone out and played today if he really felt like giving up.  But after how many seasons of this, it got tiring sometimes.  Too easy to just once more resign himself to telling his team, “We’ll get it next year, boys.”

“Well, yeah, gotta clinch first” Sid said, pulling Claude out of his thoughts.  “But I think you will.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t that why we – well, _you_ – have Carter?”

“Seems like it.”

“Then you’ll be fine.  But speaking of being fine, I should actually go so you can rest up.”

“I would like sleep.”

Sid came up right next to Claude, leaned down, and gave him a brief, fleeting kiss on his forehead.  “If you get sick because kissing is something you do now…” Claude scolded him.

“I’ve already been breathing the same air as you.  But I’ll be fine.”

“Good night, Sid.”

“Night.  I–” Sid’s voice cut off with a crack, and his face almost seemed to fall.  “I care about you.  Don’t forget that, eh?”  Sid seemed to muster up a smile, but there was something sad behind it.

Claude was feeling too sick to probe into whatever just happened now, so he waved it off.  “I won’t.  And hey, do you mind turning off the lights for me?”

“Not at all.”  Sid finally moved away as he went around and got all the switches.  “Good night!”  And then with the click of the shutting door, he was gone.  And without taking his travel mug back.  Dammit, Sid.

Claude tried to relax, shut his eyes, and go to sleep, but Sid’s visit left too many cylinders still firing in his brain, and rest wasn’t coming on at all as his thoughts raced onward.

What was _that_?

Sid risking getting sick himself just to try to personally take care of him?  Being worried enough about him that it actually cost the Pens the game?  There was no denying Sid’s play was awful, especially on that last shift.  He really seemed to have shut down, letting Coots free for the breakaway and the goal.

Then there was whatever that goodbye was.  He seemed devastated over something.

God, sometimes he really thought he knew Sid, but other times he was just an enigma.  This was one of those moments.

Though, Claude had to admit, it was kinda nice to have someone that wasn’t one of his teammates care for him like this.  To go out of their way and make sure he was doing okay, to check in on him.  And he’d be lying if he didn’t wish for Sid to be a little more reckless with his health so that that kiss was on his lips instead.  Not because he wanted Sid to go down with the flu himself (though, if the Pens completely bomb out without Sid, maybe that would help the Flyers).  He just really wanted Sid’s plush lips on his.

Dammit, why did he have to be so irresistible?  So attractive and caring and lovable?

…lovable?

Claude shoved his face deep into the pillow, groaned for a reason that wasn’t pain from the flu, and willed for sleep to come.  He was too sick to think about what that meant for him right now.

 

* * *

 

What the fuck went wrong for the Flyers?

If anyone ever tried to accuse Sid of obsessively checking up on updates on Philly – and he really hoped no one ever caught on to his habit – he’d just say it was part of his job to be aware of what was happening in the rest of the league, and especially within the division.  Even now, he sometimes tried to convince himself that it was important for that reason, and not just because Claude and Carter were special enough to him to keep tabs on.

But after checking the updates for today’s game, Sid’s heart lurched.  Flyers 2, Hurricanes 5.  The Philadelphia Flyers were officially and mathematically eliminated from playoff contention.

Which, it felt like they’d been on the brink of elimination for far too long now.  Like this had been drawn out longer than it needed to.  Sid knew it was gonna happen, but he knew the way Claude could be.  Stubborn.  Determined.  Not willing to let the world tell him what was or wasn’t possible.

Hell, seemed like their kid had picked that attitude up, too.  Claude had sent him a video the other day of press interviews with a message of _Look at our son :)_

“Have they said that we’re automatically out?  Have they said that?...Then exactly.”

Carter was gonna go far.

But not this year.  This year, they weren’t gonna get their shot.

Sid knew it had to be eating away at them…Claude especially.  Not just because this was yet another year without winning the Stanley Cup, but because he and Claude had somehow convinced themselves that this was the whole reason they had a wish child in the first place.  (Not that Sid ever let his belief in the Flyers stop him from trying his hardest to get the Pens into the playoffs.  It was the principle of the thing.  He still had to play his best.)

But with this elimination…was Carter not really destined to bring the Flyers the Cup?  And if so, then what did they wish for instead?  What could have been on their minds at the same time?

Sid quickly checked over the Flyers’ schedule and saw that they were supposed to be back to Philly for the second half of a back-to-back tomorrow afternoon.  Claude and the team would likely be traveling back from Raleigh for a while.  He decided to send out a quick text.

_Hey, could you call me when you can?_

It took hours until he got a response.

_C: Do I have to?_

Sid immediately shot one back.  _Yes.  It’s either call me, or I’ll call you._

_C: Maybe I just won’t answer_

Sid sighed.  He knew that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to push and prod him, but this was going to bother Sid until they could get to the bottom of it all.  So he sent another text.  _Maybe I’ll just keep calling._

_C: Maybe I’ll just accidentally break my phone and need to get a new one with a new number_

Asshole.  _Just fucking call me._

Claude’s resolve must’ve ran out, because Sid’s ringtone went off.

“Hello?” Sid asked as soon as he picked up.

“Why are you bothering me?”

“You know why.”

There was a deep sigh on the other end, and Sid once more felt the pang of how much of a mistake this probably was to have this conversation _now_.  Not when the sting of elimination was so fresh.  “If you’re here to offer your condolences, just stop.”

“I thought you would finally go all the way.”

“Apparently not.”  Claude’s voice was soft, almost too soft.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“It’s…how it goes every year.  If not now, then…round 1.  And come on, we would’ve had to go up against Tampa.  Not promising odds.”

Sid found himself gripping his phone tighter at Claude’s words.  “But this wasn’t supposed to be like every other year.  Why do you think we have Carter?”

“Obviously it didn’t…work out like that.”

Sid could hear how hard Claude was trying to restrain his emotions.  The pauses for breath, how quiet and meek his words sounded.  He’s seen Claude angry over bad results many times over the years.  Seen him curse at the world, seen him break a stick in frustration…but never this.  He’d never heard Claude so broken.

The line was too silent for too long.  Sid didn’t know how to comfort him.  To say, “There’s always next year,” was too hollow of a statement…Sid heard the chants at their last game: “16,000.”  A constant, ringing reminder of how many days had gone by since the last time Philly won the Stanley Cup.  It had been eluding them for far, far too long.  And with a season like this, with Claude’s point that they’ve barely gone anywhere in years…next year’s not a guarantee.

“This was a mistake,” Sid eventually said.  “What good am I to be the one to confide in about not making the playoffs?  I haven’t done that since I was a rookie!  Which to hear myself say that, god, I feel like an asshole.  I gotta be the last person you wanna hear from, no matter what this is we have between us.”

Claude laughed on the other end, a sharp, biting, bitter laugh.  “Once again, here you are, trying to comfort me.  You did this last year after we were eliminated, and you just…you keep trying to fucking make things better for me.  I don’t get you, Sid!  You shouldn’t be so upset I miss the playoffs that you want to call me!  You shouldn’t be wishing so hard that I could get a Stanley Cup that we create a goalie for a kid!”

“Actually, that’s something else I wanted to talk about.”  There was a nervousness in Sid’s voice that he wished wasn’t there.

“About Hartsy?”

“I don’t think our theory was right.”

Claude scoffed at him.  “Did we ever say I had to win the Cup _this_ season?”

He had a point. “No…”

“Then how could our theory suddenly be wrong?”

Well…there was still one crack in the theory.  But Sid was suddenly too nervous to bring it up.  He’d kept his love for Claude silent for too long.  Could he really verbalize it now?  Could he really come out and say, “I wasn’t just wishing for you to win the Stanley Cup that day”?

Claude sighed, reminding Sid that he was still on the phone.  “Look, if that’s all you wanted, can I go now?”

“Don’t go!” Sid nearly shouted.  “I just…are you gonna be okay?”

“And back to trying to give me comfort.  Sid, what’s gotten into you?  I know you don’t hate me anymore.  Being teammates knocked that out of us a long time ago.  But there was…distance.  Walls up.  We just had sex because we enjoyed it.  Because it turned out that despite being rival captains, it was pretty convenient for the both of us to fuck around with someone in the same league, someone with the same consequences if this ever got out.  I…I never expected all…this.  Not from you, Sid.”

Sid’s heart was shattering with each word Claude said.  His stupid feelings, his stupid hopes.  He had definitely put too much into this.  Of course Claude would never feel the same way.  It was never supposed to get this far anyways.  Never.  Sid was never supposed to fall in love with Claude Giroux.  He fucked himself over for not doing better at that.

Claude kept going on.  “Look, if I’m being honest?  Everything that’s been changing between us?  It’s making me fucking terrified.  I…I don’t know where this is all coming from.  Everything’s happening so fast.  It feels like I’m drowning or some shit.”

But if everything was changing for Claude…maybe it meant that Sid really wasn’t doing a good enough job of hiding his feelings.  That Sid was coming on too strong with everything anyways.

Maybe he just needed to rip it off like a band-aid.  Start coming out clean anyways, even though just moments ago he chickened out.  “Look…I know it’s my fault.  When you told me about Carter, my heart ran with it.  Because…well, this is kinda part of why I thought our theory could be wrong.  Carter was kinda right when he said that wish babies often come of love.  And…well...”  Sid had to stop himself and steady his breathing to keep going.  “Fixing things wasn’t the only thing I wished for that night.  I also wished, as I had you there, in my jersey of all things…I wished that there could be something more between us…that I could just be able to love you like I’ve wanted to.”

Sid closed his eyes tight, wincing as if he was expecting to be slapped through the phone.  He was sure that if anyone could figure out a way to do so to him, it’d be Claude.

“Sid?”

“Yes?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No, no it wasn’t,” Sid sighed.  “Believe me.  If falling in love was a choice, I know I never would’ve picked you.”

“Rude.  I’m a perfectly lovable person.”

Sid found himself relaxing some.  Okay, at least Claude was making jokes.  “Took me the hard way to find that one out.”

“But…it shouldn’t be you.  You shouldn’t love me.”

“No, I get that.”  Sid’s voice lowered a bit.  “I’m well aware that we’re supposed to hate each other.  But then I got to know you and play with you and–”

“And you somehow fooled yourself,” Claude interrupted.

“What?”

“Come on.  I’m not worth this.”

“Not worth this?”  No, Claude was absolutely worth loving.  Even though they were rivals and their personalities often clashed against each other and Sid for so long didn’t know what to do about his feelings…no, Claude was worth it.  All of it.  The good, the bad, everything.  “Come on, weren’t you _just_ saying it was rude of me to not want to love you?”

“Can’t you see it’s all just a stupid façade?  When I’m being cocky like that, playing myself up…Maybe sometimes I can get myself to believe it.  Sometimes I can actually be confident in who I am and what I’m doing…but not now.  Sid, you can’t love me because I’m not even close to deserving your attention.  You’ve got three Cups, how many awards, the undying devotion of a city plus who knows how else more of the world.  My fans barely even want me as captain still.”

“What?”  That wasn’t right, not at all.  Sid was sure he’d feel pissed off about it even in the days where they hated each other’s guts…at least he thought.  Or maybe the present really did cloud with how his past self would react.

“Philly’s always been harsh.  I’m sure you know that.  If we fuck up, we know we fucked up.  But I’ve never even led this team past round 1…are they so wrong to hate me?  I let them down again.  I’ve failed them.  I’ve failed the fans, my team…I’ve failed myself.”

Sid couldn’t believe was he was hearing.  “You haven’t fail–”

“What the fuck would you call this, then, eh?”

“Certainly not your fault.  I get it, you’re a captain, we blame everything on ourselves.  But…you guys had your general manager and your coach fired.  How many of those failures are on them and their choices?”  Sid wasn’t the type of person to publicly criticize anyone above him.  He’d just smile along with some statement about how it’s not his job, so it’s not his place to say.  But he was like anyone else, full of his own opinions.  Sid knew that there were people that got put in these positions that never deserved to be there.  Hell, the way this season seemed to be going for his team, Sid wasn’t too sure his own general manager didn’t have a few screws currently loose.

“Some, but come on, some are still on–”

“No pity parties.  You also had to go through eight different goalies this year, and yes, Carter being brought up did you all wonders, unfortunately you were never able to build a whole season around him.  That puts you at a disadvantage that’s certainly _not_ a captain’s fault.”

“Maybe not, but I still had my share of fuck ups.  I haven’t produced as much as I did last year.”

Claude should be thanking his lucky stars that they were having this argument over the phone.  At least this way, Sid wasn’t able to grab Claude by the shoulders and try to shake the sense into him.  “Last year was also a record year for you, not your average. A record you hit, may I add, at age 30!  You’re still producing at your usual range.  You still lead your team in points!”

“But if I had more, maybe we’d be in this!”

“Yeah, _maybe_.  A hypothetical.”  A single point-scorer did not make a team.  Hell, apparently not even two.  Poor Edmonton… “But you know what is something you helped contribute to?  Something that’s a concrete reality?  An eight-game win streak, a win-loss record in the second half that was comparable for a while to the pace of Tampa fucking Bay!”

“You pay attention that closely?” 

Sid blushed to himself a bit.  Whoops.  Maybe he didn’t need to make it _that_ obvious how much he kept up.  “The man I somehow fell in love with, and add to that _my son_ , are on a team, I’m gonna pay attention, even if we’re supposed to be rivals!  Speaking of being rivals, you beat us three out of four times this season!  You scored the game winning goal of the Stadium Series, eh!  Skated circles around me while sick!”

“But how does any of that make up for the fact we’re still out?”

“Maybe it doesn’t, but Claude…don’t doubt yourself.  None of this was your fault.  You’ve done so much more for Philly than I think you realize, or even the city itself does by the sounds of it.  And with the way your team improved this season, you’re gonna be playoff bound.  You’re _Stanley Cup_ bound.  I know it.”

There was a pause on the line, and Sid was slightly concerned about the silence after Claude had been willing to disavow everything Sid had said so far.  Was it actually sinking in?

A gentle laugh then filled in Sid’s ear.  Progress.  “Dammit, Sid, stop making me love you.”

Sid nearly dropped the phone out of his hands.  “You…you…”  Okay, maybe not the most eloquent response Sid’s ever had, but his brain had short-circuited a bit.  That seemed like a pretty normal thing for your brain to do when hit with something you’ve wanted for so long but was never sure you could actually have.

“Fuck… _fuck_ …”

Maybe Sid wasn’t the only one breaking a bit.  “You okay over there?”

“Yeah…yeah,”  Though Claude didn’t entirely sound okay.  “Just…do you know how long I’ve been denying that?”

For some reason Sid couldn’t help but laugh.  Maybe it was just all the tension he’d had built up over this whole thing finally releasing.  “I’m pretty sure a long time considering I thought there was no way you could ever…”  Sid couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, to speak the words “love me” aloud.  He was afraid that perhaps it would break the spell, burst the bubble, and he’d wake up to realize this was all just some weird fever dream.

“That I could ever love you?”  Okay, so maybe this was reality after all.  “How do you think I feel?  This wasn’t supposed to happen!  You don’t just… _fall_ for your rival like this!”

“Apparently we do.”

“I’m a fucking idiot.”  Sid wanted to chirp him for that one, a sort of, “Oh, so you admit it?” comment, but this didn’t feel like the right time for that, so he kept back the teasing impulse.  “Of course I fucking love you!  It’s been staring me in the fucking face this whole time, god, I’m so _stupid_!”

As Claude groaned away into his phone, Sid just laughed some more.  “Are you talking to me or yourself now?”

“The kid’s fucking right.  If there’s anything about this whole wish baby thing that still makes sense, it’s that you have to love someone first.  I’ve been in love with you this whole god damn time, and I didn’t fucking see it!”

Now Sid was thinking back to what he said, about how he wished that he could just be allowed to love Claude.  Took longer than it should have, but when was anything about him and Claude done on normal terms?  But it made Sid wonder…“Was there anything else you wished for that day?”

“I…I don’t even know.  It’s been long enough now…”

“You don’t have to push it.  I only remember what else I’d wished for because…I kinda kept thinking it every time we were together.”  It was true.  Always hoping that maybe one day someone would finally make that first move…that maybe Claude would slip up and say those three simple yet so meaningful words during sex or something.  Or that Sid would find a similar moment where his guard was let down enough to let loose what he kept trying to hold back.

“I just know I was pissed, I came to see you, I vented a bit, we had sex…well, I do know that day felt different.”

“Different?”

“It suddenly wasn’t just about the sex.  It wasn’t just about taking my pleasure from possibly the worst hook-up choice I could think of…”

Sid knew he should feel insulted by that, but he wasn’t sure where the insult lay exactly.  “Am I really the worst?”

“Fucking my rival…yeah, probably the worst thing I could do.”

Okay, so it wasn’t a knock on how good Sid was in bed.  Got it.

“But,” Claude continued, “I dunno, it was just…different that day.  But in a good way?  God, I’m not good at this.”

Sid just fondly smiled to himself.  It was honestly sweet to hear Claude try to fumble his way through his emotions like this.  “You’re fine.”

“But I liked it.  I liked it enough that I stole your jersey and took it home with me.”

“I _knew_ you had it!”  It wasn’t like Sid really needed it, it was just for photoshoot purposes, but it was still weird to find it wasn’t in his luggage when he came home.

Claude seemed to ignore him as he went on: “I liked it enough that I must’ve fallen in love with you then.”  If Sid’s smile was stupidly fond before, now he definitely looked like a lovesick fool.  He was glad to be at home, away from anyone who could see him.  “That’s the new theory, yes?  That my team only has a bright young goalie because we love each other?”

And now Sid just chuckled.  Nothing normal about them.  Ever.  “Apparently?”

“Maybe I just wished for more days like that.”

“Think your wish was granted?”

“I’m starting to.”

Sid just smiled, not really sure what to say.  The line went silent, but it wasn’t awkward.  It was a content silence.  And why wouldn’t Sid be content right now?  Claude loved him.  That stupid, reckless, obnoxious, yet passionate, caring, and charming asshole really loved him.

Claude was the first to break the silence.  “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

“Hey, maybe when my season’s over…you could come visit?”  They’d never gone out of their way to make actual plans before, to arrange a visit that wasn’t pre-determined by their schedules.  But Sid knew he couldn’t wait that long.  What would it be…the NHL Awards?  The next media day?  The next time he had to play the Flyers?  No, he wanted, _needed_ , to see Claude again sooner than that.

“Guess I’ve got more reason to hope for an early playoff exit than just hating your team.”

Sid felt a little offended.  “Hey.  If you can’t win the Cup, shouldn’t you want me to?”

“You’ve won it three times already.  Let me win it first, then we can talk about a fourth for you.”

 

* * *

 

Claude’s memory wouldn’t let him forget that he did say that he wanted Sid out of the playoffs early.  As it turns out, be careful what you wish for.  (Thought he’d have learnt that lesson when his wishes brought him a damn child.)

Claude would never admit to a single soul that he had decided for once in his life to not only watch the playoffs – he was notoriously known for not liking to watch other teams play on without him, no matter how bitter that sounded – but that he was specifically watching the Penguins vs Islanders series.

Claude just wanted to watch the games to chirp at Sid.  That was all.  It wasn’t because he was turning soft and sappy by being apparently in love.  Sid was gonna go down, and he was gonna enjoy every second of it.  Rub it in his face all summer long.

But when he saw the Islanders score the first goal only about half a minute into the game – while Sid was on the ice, at that – he found that instead of shouting at the TV “Take that, Sid!” like he thought he would, he was shouting “No, what the fuck!”  And when that goal didn’t count, the relief Claude felt was disconcerting.  But the Islanders were determined to get that lead, and they almost immediately after scored a legal goal.  Once more, Sid was on the ice for it.

An accidental Pens fan was formed that day.

If Claude thought those first few minutes were frustrating, he hadn’t seen anything yet.  The game only got worse to watch.  How the hell could the Islanders’ fucking _fourth line_ shut Sid down so effectively?  “Only my team can do that!”  Not can as in “should be capable,” but can as in “should be allowed.”

It started to become a habit while watching the series that anytime he got pissed off at a play, he’d just throw one of the dog toys across his Philly apartment.  (He hadn’t bothered trying to pack up and move out for Ottawa yet.)  Harvey and Charlie were sometimes excited for the extra play time, but sometimes Claude was just throwing toys down the hall with no one to retrieve them as they lounged around lazily.  At least the toys were safer to throw than anything else he could think of.

Of course, Claude was frustrated as hell.  Not only was he pissed off that Sid was being so outmatched by a team that, honestly, wasn’t _that_ great – the Flyers were able to beat them out at Nassau twice in one week, how were they suddenly able to shut down one of the best players in the league – but the rest of the Pens looked like they weren’t even trying.  God, did they not realize how god damn fortunate their team was to be in the playoffs every god damn year?  To _always_ be given the chance to compete further, to extend their seasons, to actually have a go at the Stanley Cup?  Yes, by the time you get to the end of the season, you’re exhausted.  Claude sure was, the rest of the Flyers were, but when you reached the playoffs?  You push through it.  You play with broken wrists throughout round 2 if you have to.  You don’t let the aches and pains stop you from reaching that ultimate goal.

But he knew Sid well enough to know that at least on his end, this poor performance was definitely not from a lack of trying.  He’d always kept tabs on Sid.  It was out of a competitive nature at first, always wanting to compare his progress to where golden boy Sidney Crosby was.  Claude would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that Sid was on a whole different level.  It was part of the fun of having him as a rival, because it was _the_ challenge.  Can I beat Sidney Crosby?  Can I be better than him?  There were more days than he’d like to admit in which he believed that maybe that feat was impossible, that maybe he’d always be second-rate, the lesser Pennsylvanian captain.  After all, Sid led Team Canada to gold at Worlds. Claude only led them to silver.  It was a fitting metaphor.

But after a while, checking up on Sid’s play became an act that was also formed out of sheer interest and (what he now could admit was) bemused affection.  Claude knew well enough by now that when everything was falling apart, #87 would carry the whole damn team on his back if he had to.  So, for him to not do that meant that the Islanders were just somehow able to crack the code.

Losses like these should’ve been a boost to Claude’s ego.  A reminder that even Crosby is fallible, that anyone is capable of taking him down.  That there are teams out there that not only can beat Sid entirely, but they can be teams that the Flyers know how to beat.

Instead, Claude was taking out his anger with dog toys and wishing for a different outcome to this round 1.  And he knew that Sid was wishing for the same thing.  (Maybe they just needed to fuck again.  That seemed to work for them.)  Claude could hear the determination and hope in Sid’s voice during interviews: “I'd love to be a part of a team that comes back from that.”  “That” being a 0-3 deficit.

Okay, so maybe Claude had sent Sid a text for that one.  _Hey, that’s one of the few things I have over you.  Don’t do that_.

But he honestly didn’t mean it.  If he could watch the Penguins turn this around, see the rest of the team actually give Sid the fucking support he needed, watch them tell those Islanders to go fuck themselves, he’d gladly let Sid join him as being on one of the few teams to win a series after going 0-3.

And for a moment, Claude believed they could do it.  “Fucking finally!” he shouted when Sid got the primary assist on a Jake Guentzel goal.  “Would’ve preferred _you_ to knock it in than the whiny brat, but…you got a fucking point, I’ll take it.”

Those hopes didn’t last long.

As it turned out, that would be their only goal all game.

What should’ve brought Claude so much joy, watching his biggest rivals get swept out of the playoffs in round fucking 1, instead just made him furious.  The dog toys weren’t gonna cut it this time.

The sooner he could make his way out to Pittsburgh, the better.

 

* * *

 

It was actually more nerve-wracking than Claude thought it’d be to make the drive all the way out to Pittsburgh.  He could’ve flown – and almost regretted not doing so, because he’d have less time alone with his thoughts – but not only did he not feel like dealing with airport security, he was sure he’d be recognized by someone in such a large, public crowd as an airport.  After all, it was now the offseason for both teams.  The local media would go crazy for _anything_ to report right now, and Claude would rather it not be in the form a headline of “Claude Giroux Caught Visiting Pittsburgh.”  If he could just drive from his apartment to Sid’s suburban place, hopefully no one would be the wiser.

But Claude was more nervous than he expected to be.  This wasn’t the first time he was visiting Sid in Pittsburgh.  Okay, it was the first time he was doing so when there wasn’t a game attached to the visit, but this wasn’t entirely new.

What was new, though, was admitting how they felt for each other.  As it turned out, he had managed to hide from himself for months that he was in love with Sidney Crosby.  And somehow Sidney Crosby was in love with him back.  Would everything be different between them now?

Though…things were already different between them.  Claude had even admitted as much.  They started changing at that stupid media day, when he somehow decided that Sid was the only person he could turn to for comfort.  After all, why didn’t he just text his team?  Vent to Simmer or Jakey or Coots about this stuff?  He didn’t need to make his way to Sid’s room for that.  Honestly, that should’ve woken up something in his brain about how his feelings for Sid went, but apparently, Claude was deeply clueless about his own emotions.

Then Hartsy happened.  He and Sid had a kid.  A floodgate was opened with that one.  But…Claude didn’t respond well to the changes.  It was awkward, it was something he kept trying to push back from…was he ready to deal with everything that came with being in love with Sid?

But then he remembered why he was making this five-hour drive to begin with.  Because he missed Sid.  Because he wanted to kiss him and hold him and love him and make him feel good, make him forget about the sweep, make him happy again.

Maybe the difference between now and then was that Claude wasn’t ready yet.  He didn’t know then that he even _had_ feelings for Sid.  How could he ever be expected to properly act on them or respond to the signals that Sid kept giving him?

God, to think that all along, he’d been in love.  It took just enough pushing and prodding from Sid, enough little acts of affection spilling over…but there it was.

And now that it was out there…yeah, he was still nervous.  But Claude also knew there was no going back.  Hell, no desire to go back.

When he finally arrived at Sid’s house, he parked the car, texted Sid that he was here, and then bolted to the front door, leaving behind everything he brought along with him in the process.  Did he need to ring the doorbell as many times as he did, or pound on the door that loudly?  Probably not.  But all those nerves seemed to morph into an impatient eagerness.  “I drove all this way to see you, let me in!”

When Sid opened the door, he looked a little annoyed.  “I texted you back.”

Claude was confused, but he checked his messages anyways.

_SC: Door’s unlocked._

“Oh…”  Claude grimaced in embarrassment as he looked back up at Sid.  “Sorry.”

“I knew you were coming.  You really thought I’d just leave you stranded out here?”

Apparently so.  “I guess I was too busy thinking about doing this to think straight.”

“About doing wh–”  The words died in Sid’s throat as Claude pushed him back into the house, slammed the door shut behind them, reached out, and pulled Sid in for a desperate, loving kiss.  He waited how long for this?  He drove _how many hours_ for this?  Claude was getting that damn kiss.

Thankfully, Sid didn’t seem to protest.  Rather, he seemed to melt a little in Claude’s grasp, letting the kiss take over him.  This was exactly what Claude had in mind.  Just let me take care of you.

As Claude pulled away, he found himself staring right into Sid’s eyes…those gorgeous, brown eyes.  Being caught up in Sid’s gaze like this, Claude was nearly shaking with how intensely he was feeling each and every emotion right now.  After repressing everything for so long, this was almost _too much_.  But…he needed this.

This was who he was in love with…and for how wrong he knew this all was, to have fallen in love with the rival captain…this felt _right_.

It felt right to lean in for another kiss, to slip one of his hands up into Sid’s dark hair, to just pour all the love he could into each little movement, each little twitch and gesture…all the love and passion and care and desire…

But especially care.  Sid needed care, needed mending.

Claude pulled away again, catching his breath, and the words escaped him before he realized he was even ready to talk.  “I think I get it now.”

“Get what?” Sid asked, his eyes scrunching up the way they did when he was confused.  It was so stupidly endearing…always had been…god, how was Claude so out of tune with himself this whole time as to miss all these signals, to not realize what was right in front of him?

Claude almost wanted to look away, but no, not now.  “I get…I get how you could call me up drunk wishing we had won instead of you.  How you could wish so desperately for me to win the Stanley Cup that we make a kid.  I…I didn’t expect how much it could actually hurt to see you fail.”

Sid didn’t respond right away.  The silence felt suffocating somehow.  Fuck, did he just ruin the mood by bringing this up now?  Was it too soon for Sid to talk about it?

But Sid’s head was soon resting on Claude’s shoulder, arms gripping around him tight.  When Sid spoke, it was muffled, but the words could still be made out.  “I’ve just wanted you to be happy.”

“I am happy.”  Here, with Sid, he didn’t think anything could make him happier…except winning the Stanley Cup.  But even that didn’t seem to matter right now.  “Are you?”

Sid pulled himself back so he could look at Claude.  He had that stupid, fond grin on his face, one Claude had seen enough times over the past few months.  He was beating himself up a bit for not realizing what that grin had meant all along.  “You’re here now, so…yeah.  Quite happy.”

Claude was sure the smile he returned was just as stupid and fond, and honestly, he couldn’t care.  “I love you.”

To see the way Sid’s eyes lit up at those words…Claude realized he would do anything to keep Sid this happy.  “I love you, too.”

“And that’s why I wanna be sure you’re okay.”  Claude moved his hands onto Sid’s shoulders, and started rubbing into them.  He could tell how much Sid appreciated the little massage in the way his eyes fluttered close and with his posture slowly relaxing.

“Yeah.  I’m okay.”  Sid opened his eyes back up, and Claude gave him a bit of a serious look in response.  Could he really be okay after being swept like that?  Sid sighed a little.  “I will be.”  That was more like it.  “But right now, I’m just…so tired.”

“Just tired?”

“I’ve had a couple days to process it all and…” Sid took another sigh, and Claude swore he could feel the exhaustion run through Sid’s body.  “Yeah, I’m just tired now.”

“Here, I’ve got an idea.”  Claude had been here enough times by now to know his way to Sid’s bedroom and to lead him there.  Once inside, he guided Sid to the bed and told him, “Take off your shirt and lie on your stomach for me.”  Sid shot him an apprehensive look.  “Just do it.  You’ll enjoy this, I promise.”  Off came the shirt, and Claude honestly had to stop himself from appreciating the view almost too much.  But he couldn’t help it.  Even now, with the end of the season making him thinner after how many grueling games and with bruises from hits given no time to heal yet, Sid’s body was still beautiful.

Maybe Claude shouldn’t have been so surprised that he fell in love with another hockey player.  There was something about knowing _exactly_ what Sid’s body was trained to do, how it could move and react like no other…it was alluring.  Intoxicating.  Downright sexual, really.  Being turned on over a player’s skill and physical prowess probably seemed like the worst cliché in the book, but Claude couldn’t help it.

But right now, Claude’s goal wasn’t to make that body writhe and moan under him, as much as his own body was currently trying to convince him otherwise.  No, instead, he took his hands and started digging them deep into Sid’s back, working to relax his muscles using the few massage techniques he’d picked up over the years.

Sid hummed in bliss below him.  “Feels good…”

Claude chuckled.  “I told you you’d enjoy this.  I’m here to take good care of you.”

“You don’t…” Sid hummed some more as Claude must’ve hit a pleasurable spot.  “…gotta do this.”

“But I want to.  I know you’ve probably got more offseason routines than I do, but…a little extra attention can’t hurt.”

They fell into a comfortable silence – minus the hums that kept coming from Sid – as Claude worked away on his back and his shoulders again…no, he wasn’t an expert, but he knew enough to trust that he wasn’t gonna fuck up somewhere.  And the steady noises of pleasure coming from Sid meant it was all worth it.

“I think that’s good…” Sid murmured after a while, all blissed out.

Claude smiled, loving how dopey Sid’s voice was.  “You sound like you could fall asleep.”

“Might.  I dunno.”

Claude moved himself around to lie down beside Sid, facing him.  Claude reached a hand out and brushed it through Sid’s hair before pressing a brief, soft kiss onto his forehead.  “If you do fall asleep, I’m right here.  Not going anywhere.”

Sid smiled at him.  “Could you stay forever?”

Claude felt his chest clench with that.  Oh, Sid…he was so vulnerable like this, teetering between consciousness and sleep.  He’d seen a sleepy Sid from various times they’d slept together, but it was never like this.

“I could use more massages like that,” Sid continued.

“Oh, is that what you want me around for?”  Claude couldn’t help but tease him.

Sid whined out, “ _What_?  That felt nice…can’t I be spoiled more often?”

It was weird to see shades of Sid that still reflected the one-dimensional stereotype that Claude used to have of him years ago.  Things he’d told himself about how petulant he was, how bratty, how rude…obviously, Sid was both never truly like that and he was much more mature now, but the picture got painted somehow.  And sometimes the way Sid liked to joke around, it seemed like he purposely played up into those stereotypes for the laughs.

“Hire a masseuse if you wanna be that spoiled.”

Sid grinned at him, still a little dopey.  “It wouldn’t be the same without your loving care.”

Sid was being so sappy it actually hurt.  Was this really what he had been missing out on, being too dumb to figure out his own feelings?

“I thought you were gonna go to sleep.”  Claude only deflected the subject because he didn’t really know what to say to that.

“You just got here.  I don’t wanna do that.”

“But you’re tired.  You said it yourself.”

Sid sighed, looking down at himself.  “It’s not the tired sleep can fix.  It’s because I’m getting old.”

Claude didn’t want to be reminded of the impending doom of aging again.  “Hey.  We’re not that old.”

“I’m 31.  I’m getting up there.”

“I’m as old as you are, and no, we’re not.  We’re still pretty young.  We got another good ten years of play in us, as long as we keep ourselves in good condition.”

“I’m not usually this worn out.”  Sid’s voice by now had stopped sounding all dreamy-like and had started sounding a lot more weary.  “And I only played four playoff games.”

“It’s also painfully obvious how much you had to carry the team on your back this year.  I mean…fuck, the Isles shut you down, and that was that.  Game over.”  Claude was running through the game broadcasts over in his head again, and some of that anger could be felt bubbling toward the surface.  “That’s not fucking fair to you, you know.  You need a god damn team around you that can actually support you, that can pick up the slack when you’re not able to play at your level.”

Sid pushed himself to sit up in bed and looked down at Claude.  “I’m used to doing that.  Making up for what’s lacking is just…part of what I do.  Always has been.  I just…” Sid sighed.  “I just can’t keep doing that forever.  I think it’s becoming clear that I’ve gotta do things differently to keep up.  Yeah, give credit to the Islanders where it’s due but…I was running on empty.  Some of it was really just me.”

Claude was starting to wonder if maybe taking Sid up on that offer to stay here and take care of him forever wasn’t such a bad idea after all.  He didn’t like this, didn’t like the idea of Sid starting to feel any sort of decline in his abilities.  He was _Sidney fucking Crosby_.  People were out here comparing him to Connor McDavid all the time – in what Claude knew was a shitty and unfair comparison in the first place – out of a misguided desire to see if Sid was still at the top of the league or if it was time to usher in the new generation once and for all.  And, well, wasn’t Sid proving that he was supposed to be good forever?  But no…age came for them all.

“Look,” Sid continued, “I know I’m gonna keep playing hockey for a while.  Maybe not like Jagr.  I should probably retire sometime.”  Claude laughed at that.  Oh, Jagr…that man was crazy.  “But I know I’m not out yet.  I’ve got a lot left in me.  I just…I need a little more help sometimes now.  That’s all.”

“I’m assuming this means you’re not going to Worlds this year?” Claude asked as he decided to sit up himself.  It was a tad annoying to have Sid looking down at him like that.  “Which, neither am I.  Didn’t really feel worth it this year.  But Hartsy’s going.  Maybe he can make his dads proud?”

“Yeah, maybe.  But…I announced I wasn’t going at break down day.  Did you not see that?”

“Am I supposed to watch all your interviews?”  Though, if Claude were to be honest, he didn’t _want_ to watch Sid’s exit interview.  In fact, he didn’t even see the handshake line because he turned off the TV that fucking fast that night.  Claude knew exactly how it felt to be eliminated.  He knew the real hurt and pain that was underneath each attempt to be soulless, that was hidden under each cliché phrase to the media.  And _attempt_ was key.  He nearly choked up in front of the cameras at least once by the end of the season.  How could he not?  It was a pain he had experienced every fucking year, and it got worse each time they didn’t win the Cup.  He didn’t need to see or hear it accidentally slip out from Sid.  Didn’t matter how much better at this media training he was, Claude _knew_ something would break through, especially when Sid hadn’t won a playoff game for the first time in how many fucking seasons.  Claude was already angry enough for him.  He did not want to push his emotions off the deep end by torturing himself.  He was the type of person to turn off a movie if it was about to make him cry.  Same principle applied.

And okay, maybe Claude wanted to be better about being open about everything with Sid, but…baby steps.

“I just figured you would” Sid started, looking a little surprised, “since we’re…um…shit, we never really put a label on this, did we?”

Labels.  Right.  They’d gone so long without ever having any sort of definition for them, it was easy to forget that maybe they had gotten to a point where that mattered.  They had just been…a _thing_ , he guessed.  “I mean…we’re in love, we have a kid…I’d say it’s pretty serious.”

Sid just laughed.  “Yeah, pretty serious, alright.”

“I don’t know, I haven’t done this shit in a long time.  Way before I even started hooking up with you.”

“Well…I think most people would consider us a couple.”

Leave it to Sid to have the label ready to go.  “You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.”  Which meant yes.  Claude was stupid about some things, but not that.

“Really?  That’s not fair.  You had a head start over me.”

Sid cocked his head to the side and gave him a look of exasperation.  “Are you really turning this into a competition?”

Claude just shrugged.  “Isn’t everything?”

Sid’s face went all squinty.  “Um…no?”

“Coming from you?”  God, Claude just wanted to laugh.  “Bullshit.  You’re as bad as I am.”

“I am not.”

Claude was feeling pretty glad that looks couldn’t kill, because he really didn’t want to murder Sid just yet.  But he did feel like staring him down intensely, daring him to deny his stubborn, competitive streak once more.

“I can’t tell if you want to kill me or fuck me, jesus.”

If that didn’t just perfectly define them, Claude didn’t know what did.  “Neither, but…” Claude let his eyes trace down the expanse of Sid’s still shirtless torso.  “I think one of those can be easily arranged.”

“Guess I had a good life.”  The shit-eating grin Sid gave him, however, said he knew exactly what was coming.

Was Claude maybe a little too easy when it came to Sid?  Maybe.  But Sid seemed just as eager and ready every time, so really, it’s not like it mattered.  Hell, when for _four years_ their relationship was relegated to not much more than clandestine hook ups, being easily responsive and in tune to each other’s desires made sense.

After all, it wasn’t until now that they used their words, that they consciously spoke about any sort of feelings.  Everything between them up to this point was relegated to touch and motion, pleasure and sometimes a little pain.  Each kiss, each bite, each thrust…each spoke something that didn’t have words yet.

But as Claude found himself straddling Sid on the bed, any remaining clothes between them having been tossed on the floor, his hands roaming everywhere he could get to, his mouth pressing into every pleasure point he knew Sid had, eliciting filthy moans from the man under him…Claude realized exactly what their sex had always been trying to communicate.

I need you.  I crave you.

It was a cry for each other, a desire for as much intimacy as they could get.  It was an act of reckless abandon, of telling the world to fuck off, that it didn’t matter who they were, they just need each other.  Only each other.

Their sex had always, somehow, been about love.  They had always been drawing closer and closer to this moment, when they didn’t just need touch to communicate it anymore.  When they could finally look into each other’s eyes and just say, “I love you.”

Thankfully, the universe had granted them a little push in the right direction.


End file.
